He hadn’t come so close to laughter in months. It didn’t matter what scum was cheering him, but it mattered that all of them saw him.
Applauding him might be an indulgence—might be, in truth, nothing but scorn—but right now, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t one of them. He’d bet the women in the audience wanted him rather than the suit-and-tie-wearing sugar daddies they’d come with. And he knew the men all wanted to be him, even if they were pimps and CEOs and MPs and two-bit VIPs from Big Brother. Right now, they were off their fat arses and applauding him.
A convict.
Fuck them all.
WHEN BROOKLYN returned to the dressing room, Les was leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, a white towel draped across his neck. Brooklyn wanted nothing more than to escape the fake silk robe clinging to his sweaty skin.
“What was that out there, Brook?”
“Get my gloves off.” Sweat beaded on his face and ran down his temple. Tickling. He wanted to shower. Fall into bed. But Les’s face said that was pretty unlikely. Well, except the shower.
“That’s a ‘get my gloves off, please.’”
You fucking bastard. I won that bloody fight, didn’t I? Brooklyn clenched his teeth. “Please.” It still felt like choking on a toad. After three years, he was still not used to asking for assistance when it should have been their job to help him. Wasn’t like he didn’t pay them dearly for their “services.” But he wanted that shower and couldn’t chew through the duct tape wrapped around his gloves. And Les wasn’t the worst guy to have to ask.
“Sure. No problem.” His trainer pushed away from the wall and began cutting the glove off at the wrist, strong fingers deft and knowing.
Brooklyn looked to the side. Right after a fight, having another man so close was like an unbearable itch that triggered all kinds of aggressive responses.
And he wanted something to fuck. That counted as an aggressive response, right?
“That last bit, where you thought about killing him? Don’t do it, Brook. It’s not worth it. How’s Cash going to arrange you a championship bout if you kill the other fighters?”
“All right.” He was relieved when Les pulled off the gloves, and he wiggled his fingers in the sweaty red wraps. His knuckles would swell, but they always did. They’d be fine before the fight next month.
He freed the end of the bandage and unwrapped his hands, the left one first and then the right, and tossed the sweat-soaked cotton into the laundry bag. “Can I have a shower?”
Les studied his face for a moment. “Five minutes. I’ll pack your stuff.”
“Wow, you’d do that for me?”
“We’re on a tight schedule.”
“For what?”
“You have an appointment.”
“Fuck. I forgot.” He’d rather have gone back into the ring to finish off another journeyman who had more heart than talent.
“Exactly.” Les smirked. “So keep that charge. Can’t have you fall asleep on this one. She paid good money to get what you’re bringing from that fight.”
Brooklyn groaned but bent down to untie his boots. He pulled them off along with the wet socks, which went into the laundry bag too. He straightened slowly, gaze lingering on Les’s long, muscular form. He couldn’t help but grin at his coach’s exasperated sigh.
“Into the shower, Brook.”
“What?”
“I know exactly what you’re doing here. And it’s a ‘no.’”
Brooklyn huffed and plucked the towel from Les’s neck, delighting in his trainer’s sharp intake of breath. Oops.
“Go.” Les shoved him away, took the towel from his grip, and swatted him on the arse with it. “Get showered, Romeo.”
Brooklyn headed off, noticing, as always, the bars fastened to the window in the shabby little group shower. Considering the part of town, it was most likely more to keep burglars out than people like him in. Gym shower, not much different from the one in the place he’d begun boxing as an amateur. The gym he trained at now was south of the river and nestled in the arches of a Victorian brick bridge that had trains rumble over it every fifteen minutes.
Footballers got the nice locations. Boxers fought amidst crates in the yard behind a supermarket in the nasty part of London, if need be.
Les opened the door and dropped off a pair of jeans and a shirt, along with shorts, socks, trainers, and a hooded sweatshirt to keep his body warm. Brooklyn towelled himself down and assumed his “date” liked the thug look.