Page 73 of Mean Machine

Thorne came up the stage, and Brooklyn stood to shake his hand. Thorne’s grip was powerful, friendly, solid. Thorne leaned in to him, close enough that Brooklyn could feel his breath. “Remember, this is all for show, right?”

Brooklyn merely nodded, because they parted already. The main reason for the press conference was to sell tickets, after all. Thorne waved to the audience, then sat down on a chair at the far end of the stage. This way, their trainers sat in the centre as a human demilitarised zone.

Thankfully, Cash had hired a moderator, who now welcomed the journalists and cracked jokes while both Thorne and Brooklyn settled on their chairs. Thorne opened his small bottle of water and poured himself a glass while the moderators made introductions. Behind them and to the left and right, the huge screens up on the wall switched over to a montage of Brooklyn and Thorne—in the gym, hitting bags, skipping, circling a sparring partner. The moderator rushed the audience through both their careers in fast-forward mode, in a rousing tone that could have been used to announce a patriotic war, and the excitement ramped up.

None of this was new information, but likely the well-worn clichés, the repetition of facts they all knew if they’d prepared at all for the press conference or even skimmed the material they’d been sent prior to this, had a kind of hypnotic effect. There was nothing new in any of this, but after the introduction, electricity charged the air. The audience was certainly warmed up.

Time for the Q&A. This was the part Brooklyn had been dreading, because it was the first time journalists had unfettered access to him, and he knew well how vicious the English press could be. Cash had mooted briefing the journalists on questions that were off-limits, but Marina had quite rightly told him that giving them a list of all of Brooklyn’s sore points would be seen as a tacit invitation.

Lots of hands went up. A couple of people lurked with microphones and hurried towards the journalist who’d been chosen to ask their questions first.

“For both contenders—how and where will you prepare?”

Brooklyn was about to open his mouth but hesitated. Thorne was much more experienced at this, and he was the title holder, so he motioned for Thorne to speak first. Thorne gave him a curious look, then beamed a wide grin at the reporter. “Same place in Hawaii, with the same team as last time—considering I beat Marshall, there’s no need to change anything. Maybe I’ll go a bit harder to end the carnage quicker.”

“How many rounds do you think this will last?”

“Five at most.”

“Mr Marshall?”

“Training will be on Cyprus. Joseph can give you more details.”

“What do you think about that prediction you’ll go down in round five?”

“It’s bullshit.” Brooklyn cast a quick glance towards Thorne, who still seemed mildly amused, sipping from the water glass that all but vanished in his big hands. “Wishful thinking. Thorne will be lucky if he survives this fight.”

Woah. That had come out wrong. That had been something Joseph had said—when he said that Brooklyn had “killed it,” or “had survived that body shot,” that wasn’t literal at all, but coming from Brooklyn, those words were a lot more charged. Nothing but boxing talk, really, but Brooklyn noted the little gasp travelling through the audience. He’d always be the boxer who’d killed Odysseus in the ring. He’d always be the man who’d lost his freedom over manslaughter.

“Are you threatening Dragan Thorne?”

Brooklyn felt sick to his stomach, but there was no way to back out of this now. “He was lucky last time to make it out on points. He won’t be lucky this time.”

“Mr Thorne, any comment?”

Thorne scoffed audibly, then stood at his full height, radiating the easy menace of a man who’d likely shot up so fast and far that he’d always taken his height and width pretty much for granted, while being very aware of what it did to smaller men around him. “My comment is this, and you can print it exactly this way.” He turned to Brooklyn, who didn’t like sitting down while Thorne stood, and when he rose, their trainers did too, as if to get in between them should they come to blows nobody had yet paid for. “Marshall, I really enjoy your whole ‘British Bulldog’ act, it’s good fun, plays well with the locals, no doubt, but—” And he turned back to the audience that was now hanging on every word. “—I think it’s time we put that naughty puppy back in the cage before he pees on the carpet.”

Ouch. Fair enough; after Brooklyn’s last line, he probably deserved it. But Thorne knew just how fucking awful the “cage” had been, and Brooklyn couldn’t believe Thorne would say something like that lightly.

Brooklyn grabbed the microphone harder. “Big words, old man. We all know how much you can give, but I was personally more impressed by your sex tape than your last performance. Change of career maybe, before you embarrass yourself again?”

The sound of the audience was that gleeful wince that accompanied a low blow that the ref hadn’t called.

“Does your boyfriend know you’re jerking off to my tape?” Thorne said coldly.

Brooklyn must have surged forward, because suddenly there were hands around his arms and waist, with Joseph pushing both palms against his chest.

Thorne, at the other end of the table, brushed imaginary dust off his jacket and closed the button, regarding Brooklyn with what seemed like cool disdain. “I’ll see you in New York, pup.” He left the stage, with his entourage covering his back in case Brooklyn freed himself and attacked, it seemed, and made a dignified exit.

Brooklyn caught a glance from Nathaniel, who looked more horrified than he’d ever seen him, and that sick feeling sank deeper and hardened. Sure, putting himself on the line was necessary, both in the ring and out of it, but unlike Mrs Thorne, who seemed very much in on the whole thing, Nathaniel had never signed up for that side of it. He didn’t even care much about the boxing, merely put on a brave face for Brooklyn’s benefit.

Just a few journalists left their seats and rushed out after Thorne’s crew—most stayed on their seats, clearly enjoying the exchange and what it meant.

“Any comment, Mr Marshall?”

Brooklyn looked at Cash, then at Joseph, but neither took control of the situation.

“He won on points last time. The fight could easily have gone the other way, and I’ll make sure that it does.”

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