Page 85 of Mean Machine

“Okay. Text me if you need anything. Or call my room directly.” Joseph did a final sweep of the suite but seemed satisfied. “And once you’ve rested, we’ll deal with everything else.”

Brooklyn merely nodded and reached for the electrolytes, while Joseph left. He took one of the most careful showers of his life, appalled at the swelling of his face. The cut with its harsh black stitches was more black now than purple, and the eye was most definitely shut now. He looked like a Frankenstein’s monster version of himself, except arguably his stitches were slightly less dramatic. He wrapped himself into one of the fluffy bathrobes, gathered his protein, electrolytes, and banana and retreated into the bedroom.

How decadent to sprawl on one of those gigantic queen-sized mattresses—he could have stashed at least another person of his general size here, or maybe two, if they’d have been willing to get a little cosy. It took effort to arrange all those pillows that Americans liked piling up against the headboard to have some support while not quite sitting up, not quite lying down.

His phone buzzed against the nightstand surface, and Brooklyn reached for it. Nathaniel. Of course. “Yes?”

“Jesus.” Nathaniel sounded half-relieved, half-exasperated. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure whether you’d answer. I’ve been trying to reach you since the fight.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” Brooklyn managed a small smile, though maybe he should just avoid all facial expressions for a good long while. “I got back in a minute ago.”

“I was halfway through booking a plane ticket before they said you were ‘fine.’” The last word held enough sarcasm that it bled through even Nathaniel’s agitation. “Not that it looked fine.”

“It sure didn’t feel fine either, but I’m good. There’s a bit of bone damage, but nothing to be alarmed about. No worse than a broken nose.”

Nathaniel inhaled sharply, his silence holding five flavours of disapproval.

“I needed some stitches, which is why they cancelled the after-fight press shindig.”

“Thorne showed up only for about ten minutes himself.”

“He did? What did he say?”

“Not much more than confirm he’d fight you again, your choice of venue, and that there will be discussions about that. He also said you’d developed well as a boxer and the win was deserved.”

“That’s nice of him.” And it was. No doubt Cash and Thorne would hash something out—if they got another payday out of a third fight, Brooklyn was definitely game. And giving Thorne a chance to win his titles back would only be fair. “Best of three” kind of thing.

“You’d fight him again?” Nathaniel sounded almost outraged.

“Not right away, but yeah, why not?”

“That’s….” Nathaniel exhaled harshly. “Don’t you think that’s reckless?”

“I’ve beaten him once. I’ll beat him again. The thing with the towel leaves some doubts—some idiots will think his trainer just lost his nerve. If I can get Thorne to quit on his stool or knock him out of the ring, the result will be a lot clearer.”

“Good God, you’re serious.”

Brooklyn paused. “I’ll fight him as often as it takes.”

“That… injury. I looked it up on the internet, and do you know who gets that kind of injury?”

Well, boxers, obviously.“Enlighten me?”

“Somebody who gets hit with a baseball bat. People in a car crash. Tennis players getting hit with a high-speed ball. Boxers.”

“Yes, it happens. Your point?”

“Who says you won’t get hurt worse next time?”

“And who says I will?” Well, granted, quite the question to ask when his whole head was throbbing with heat from the bruising. “Will you focus on that, or do you even care that I’m the unified world heavyweight champion?”

Nathaniel paused, and Brooklyn could almost see him change tack. He’d smooth his jacket or fiddle with his shirtsleeves now, briefly turning his gaze inward as he arranged his thoughts into a new structure. “I’m sorry, you’re right. Congratulations. I know what this means to you, and I’m glad you achieved that dream.” It sounded genuine but flat.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” Wow, and considering where Nathaniel was emotionally, did that sound like backhanded mockery? “I mean, thank you for your support.”

“You’re welcome. It was the least I could do after everything.” That flatness might just be deflated worry, or maybe suppressed resentment that Brooklyn had let himself get hurt. “When are you coming home?”

“As soon as I can. A few days.”

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