Counterpunch

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “How are you feeling?” he asked Nathaniel.

  “I thought it was intense out by the ring,” Nathaniel muttered. “I can’t imagine how bad this is for you.”

  Yes, it was bad. But he kept all those emotions inside to focus on Odysseus, who, somewhere in the bowels of the venue, was likely doing the same. Two men carrying the weight of fourteen thousand onlookers.

  “I threw up before my first pro fight,” Brooklyn said.

  “No wonder.” Nathaniel folded his hands together between his knees, hunched over, and kept watching Brooklyn. “Does it help if I’m here? Or does it make it worse?”

  “No, it’s not good to be alone.”

  “You look magnificent, though. Brimming with energy. Dangerous and human and glorious.”

  Brooklyn laughed. “You’re full of shit.” The adoration on Nathaniel’s face helped with the nerves. While he didn’t want Nathaniel to watch him get beaten to a pulp, it was good to think one person in the audience would be there for him even if he lost. Not that he wanted to lose. He couldn’t just take a fall, but maybe if he were to lose, it might be easier to just give up. Nathaniel wouldn’t judge him for it. And that was an odd feeling. Shelley had never really cared enough about the boxing to watch him fight.

  I can’t see you getting hurt.

  He pushed the thought away, glanced at the clock, and sat back down, leaning against the wall. Feeling seconds run off him like drops of sweat. He even managed to tune out Nathaniel’s occasional fidgeting.

  Resting, being ready and relaxed. It was the closest thing to meditation, sorting through the thoughts in his head. Pushing everything aside that would come between him and victory. Odysseus was a good boxer. A very good boxer, even, hard as anything and much quicker on his feet than Thorne.

  The first fight he’d seen of him had been uncanny, because Odysseus seemed to land his most devastating blows when he was moving backwards. Like when Ali had downed a charging George Foreman that way, letting the opponent run smack bang right into his fist, the punch itself looking almost like an afterthought, a weak defensive measure, only it was anything but. Counterpunching arsehole.

  “Will you be okay?” Nathaniel touched his shoulder.

  Brooklyn opened his eyes. “I’ll be good. Want to go grab your seat?”

  “I was going to get some fresh air, but yes.”

  “Rest of the bill isn’t bad. Maybe watch a fight or two.”

  Nathaniel gave a brave smile. “I don’t want to mess with your concentration.”

  “Where are you sitting?”

  “Probably too close and not nearly close enough.”

  Brooklyn grabbed his shirt and pulled him into a kiss, which startled Nathaniel. God, that was awfully cute of him. Concentration and all that. If he did sit close, he’d be able to hear the punches. “I’ll try not to splatter his blood on your nice white shirt, then.”

  Nathaniel straightened again and touched Brooklyn’s face. “You’re much more courageous than I am.”

  Brooklyn snorted. “He’s just one man.”

  Nathaniel’s smile turned wistful. “I wanted to be here to tell you something.” His eyes were ever so slightly widened, like in stress or fear, or disbelief. “And now I can’t get it out.” He made a sound somewhere between a cough and an aborted chuckle. “And I maybe shouldn’t, because of your focus. I really don’t want you distracted in the ring because of me.”

  “You’re overthinking this.”

  “I love you.”

  Brooklyn stared. His first impulse was to say, “Yes, I do too,” but shit, he’d not said anything like that for more than two years. Never as a slave. “Good job,” he muttered, and then grabbed Nathaniel when he tried to pull away. “I mean, what else will I think of in the ring now?”

  I love you.

  God. What to do with this?

  “I just thought it needed saying.” Defensive. Hurt showing in his eyes.

  He knew. Shit. Shit. What to say? “I love you, Master,” was the end point of every piece of sleazy slave porn out there. Sexual domination, acceptance of being a slave. Craving punishment. Then a declaration of love. He wasn’t a fucking animal—not even for Nathaniel.

  Brooklyn took Nathaniel’s hand, squeezed it. “I can’t take that with me out there. Let’s talk about it later, okay? I’m not saying I’m not . . . I’m just . . .” Not ready. Not free. Not about to give up.

  Nathaniel nodded. “Sorry. A nice dinner is more traditional for this.”

  “Fuck tradition.” Brooklyn touched his lips to Nathaniel’s. “We’ll talk, okay?”

  He was unspeakably relieved when Santos arrived with enough water for a herd of elephants and his gum shield in the other hand. “Time to wrap your hands, Brooklyn.”

  “Yeah.” Brooklyn settled down again and watched Nathaniel leave.

  I love you. What the hell did this mean now? He reached over to the portable stereo, pressed the start button on player. It took him a few moments to sort through his thoughts while a guitar began to play. Then Rob Halford’s voice rang out, but he was too distracted to recognise the song immediately—he didn’t know the newer Priest albums by heart like the eighties stuff or Painkiller. “Worth Fighting For.”

  He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the lyrics. Every line cut, and that told him how badly shaken he was. Loneliness, but he couldn’t bring himself to push the button. Fuck Priest for adding the occasional emotional suckerpunch to all that energetic, driving metal.

  “Heavy Duty” came in like a relief, and he flexed his hands in the bandages, forming some of the words tonelessly, slowly rebuilding the energy that seemed to have fled the moment Nathaniel had touched him. Unlike other men, Nathaniel’s touch didn’t wind him up, didn’t make him want to lash out.

  He did punch “Cathedral Spires” away and went with “Bullet Train.” He’d considered that as his ring music, but Cash had told him it wouldn’t translate well in the hall. After the taut buildup, the rest of the song really lived off Ripper Owens’s banshee howl.

  Eric opened the door and led in Odysseus’s trainer, whom he knew from his preparation and the weigh-in. The man walked up to Brooklyn, who stretched out his bandaged hands. Once examined, the man pulled out a black felt pen and signed across them on both sides.

  Santos handed the boxing gloves to the other trainer, who checked them and gave them back. Santos then helped Brooklyn put them on and taped them around the wrists. The tape was again signed. No foul play possible. The trainer gave Brooklyn a curt nod and left.

  Once Santos had tied the laces of his boots, Brooklyn stood, cranked up the music again, and tested some combinations, but slowly, just to build energy. He didn’t have anything to spend before the time was ready. The flat, aggressive “Machine Man” hit the same spot, and then the hymnal “Metal Messiah.” He went back on the exercise bike to warm up his legs, keeping things nice and easy.

  Soon, Santos nodded to him. “It’s time.”

  Brooklyn missed Cash, missed Les. His first bout as a slave without them. But Santos would know how much he could take. He did some final stretches, but he was as ready as he’d ever be.

  “Don’t throw in the towel. Whatever happens, don’t. I’ll win this.”

  Santos nodded and walked by his side through the catacombs. The hard guitar riff of his ring music sounded through the doors.

  From the utilitarian concrete into the gloom of the hall, flashes of light dancing off him, the sound system blaring his fight song—Judas Priest’s “One on One”—so loudly Brooklyn didn’t even hear the crowd.

  He walked into a solid wall of hostility. Odysseus was popular—an obedient, entirely wholesome slave with flair, always polite, always nice, no scandals. Brooklyn wondered if he’d walked in with Edwin Starr’s “War,” which had always struck him as ironic.

  But, Brook, bad boys sell tickets, Cash would say. Every hero needs a villain. Villains are harder to play, so it’s good you can fill tha
t role.

  They turned the whole event into a pantomime—no different from wrestling, which made more money anyway. But still, the hostility was like a strong hand pressing against his heart. If he was lucky, he might win some over, but he wasn’t counting on it. He’d have to ignore them and focus on Odysseus until the crowd simply faded.

  Odysseus awaited him in the ring, white shorts with sky-blue stripes, white boots, blue tape, white gloves. In real life, Odysseus came across as somebody he wouldn’t mind going down to the pub with.

  He didn’t look scary—just focused and razor sharp, wide-awake, and in extremely good shape, radiating power and life with an easy, relaxed confidence. He wasn’t flashy at all. Brooklyn touched his gloves, thinking he might end up resenting the man for the pain he’d dish out, but he pushed the thought away.

  He glanced at Santos in his corner. Rose stood close too, in a tracksuit, giving him a thumbs-up. Was Les watching from somewhere? Curtis? The management was certainly watching.

  And the audience was packed. Not one free seat in the hall. But the real money came via pay-per-view. Odysseus alone was a big moneymaker with his European following, and the Brits would likely switch on too.

  Brooklyn watched Odysseus cross himself and roll his neck. He had a Greek flag crudely tattooed over his heart, and a Spartan Hoplite helmet high up on his right arm—the dangerous one—sitting atop a shield with a reverse V and two crossed lances, done by a more gifted tattoo artist. A detail he’d never noticed before. Nor had he any idea where in Greece Odysseus was from, or whether he had family.

  Dark eyes met his briefly, and then the guard went up, and Odysseus began to circle. He stayed out of reach, very well protected, evading Brooklyn’s jabs rather than responding to them. Odysseus didn’t jab—like that most basic of punches was somehow beneath him.

  Brooklyn had to work pretty hard to even get into range, but when he did, he managed to get a couple of punches in. Not much, because the man ducked and weaved like a mongoose. That made Brooklyn the cobra, and the thought was sobering. Cobras tended to lose against that kind of opponent.

  The first round passed without much happening, and Brooklyn took a mouthful of water and waited for Santos to wash out the gum shield.

  Rosario patted his shoulder. “He’s a tricky customer, Brook. But that looked good.”

  Brooklyn grinned. “Think I can take him?”

  “Watch that right hook, and you should.”

  Brooklyn opened his mouth far enough for Santos to push the gum shield back in. “Go,” Santos shouted at him, and Brooklyn bounced to his feet.

  He pushed Odysseus harder this round, used the quick combinations he’d worked on with Rosario until his eyes had glazed over and his hands had been too heavy to lift. He managed to get two low punches into Odysseus’s sides, hearing the satisfying, solid slap of a punch that had come in just perfectly.

  He could see in Odysseus’s eyes that he’d hurt him, and the man stumbled backwards for a few steps. When Brooklyn pushed forwards to use his advantage, a blistering combination of punch and hook greeted him. Hurt, but more than ready to defend himself.

  Rounds three and four were similar. Fairly hands-off, circling, with Odysseus moving far more, closing the distance only when he saw an opening, but his style was as defensive as ever. Round five, and Brooklyn began to feel the exertion. He pushed harder, extra careful about his defence. With a right hook, he opened up Odysseus’s guard and immediately threw a punch at Odysseus’s face.

  From out of nowhere, something hit him like lightning against the temple and eye, and Brooklyn staggered back. The punch—and where on earth had that come from?—shook him down to the back leg, and he completely lost focus, lights spinning, and the terrible, feral growl of the audience made his heart race with panic.

  He hit the ground but scrambled to his feet unaware of any counting from the ref. Everything hurt; strength ran out of him like blood. He shook his head, unaware even of his opponent. The knockdown zinged like an ice-cold shock through him. His eyes blurred and stung.

  The round was over, and hands were all over him. He spat the gum shield out. Santos was wiping at his face with a towel, which came back smeared pink. The stinging must be blood. Santos was pushing a cool, wet cotton ball against his eyelid just under the arch of the bone while strong hands were kneading his shoulders. Rose? Relaxing him, touching him.

  “That’s bleeding a lot, Brooklyn.”

  “Don’t stop it. I’m good.” I’m good. He’d never been cut that badly. Maybe fucking Odysseus had twisted the wrist, or hit him just right.

  The force was unimaginable. Brooklyn was sure he’d never been hit so hard. And so fast—he’d never seen it coming. The thought of going out there and taking more of those punches filled him with dread. Maybe he wasn’t going to win this, after all.

  Santos smeared Vaseline into the cut over his eye and pushed the gum shield back between his teeth.

  Round six. Immediately, the ref took his wrists and wiped the gloves against his shirt to remove any dirt from the knockdown. The ref sought Brooklyn’s gaze with his jaded blue eyes, but not without kindness. Something resigned in them: a man who watched young men try to wreck each other.

  Brooklyn approached Odysseus much more carefully, hoped strength would return to his legs, but he knew it wouldn’t. It took rest to recover from that kind of blow.

  Again, Odysseus kept his guard up high and tight, ready to lash out at any kind of provocation. Fucking counterpuncher, fucking bastard. Brooklyn’s next attack came in well, though. He was stronger and six pounds heavier, and he was going to use every ounce of that. He pummelled Odysseus’s sides and didn’t let him get away. Suddenly they were in an awkward clinch, half embracing, half attempting to get shots in.

  When Odysseus rabbit-punched him in the neck, however, Brooklyn tore free and got an uppercut hook combination in that hit Odysseus perfectly in the jaw and the side.

  The man’s eyes rolled, knees giving out like they’d been cut off, and Brooklyn’s first response was to hit the bastard again on the way down. There was almost no resistance; Odysseus’s head wobbled on his neck like the muscles were no longer anchored.

  The ref began counting, and there were movements from the Greek, but he didn’t get up again. An odd swaying, then he sank to one side, eyes blinking hectically, as if he was trying to clear his vision.

  The ref ended the fight. Brooklyn raised his arms, turning to watch the crowd jump to its twenty-eight thousand feet, but his right eye was swelling shut.

  There, in the first row, sat Nathaniel, clapping his hands and smiling, pleased, proud, simply beaming. Brooklyn grinned back, glad the man wasn’t freaking out over the blood, and then he spotted somebody moving in the second or third row to the side. He looked familiar in the way a ten-year-old memory was familiar, but at the same time, he looked strange in the turtleneck and tan-coloured chinos. Short-shorn hair. Tall. Broad shouldered.

  Dragan Thorne?

  “Thorne, I’m coming for you!” Brooklyn shouted against the din.

  The man looked up, met his eyes, even though it was very nearly impossible that Thorne had heard him over the commotion. Brooklyn almost shrugged off the ref who tried to push something in his hands, but then realised it was the belt. He draped it across his shoulder, keeping his eyes firmly on Thorne.

  At least for as long as he could. An emergency crew was now crowding the ring, kneeling around Odysseus, who still didn’t move, and Brooklyn noted with a chill of recognition how one of the men stabilised Odysseus’s neck, while two others got him ready to be moved onto something that looked like a stretcher.

  Kicking legs.

  Jessica.

  Rose was suddenly at his side with a hand on his arm. “Let’s go, Brooklyn.”

  Santos guided him from the other side, and Brooklyn obeyed, too numb to do anything. Adrenaline held the pain at bay, mostly, but his body throbbed with the abuse of the fight, feeling a lot like tenderised meat. He h
ad to step around the medics, cast a fleeting glance into Odysseus’s slack face, struck by the fact that his glazed eyes were open, but seeing nothing. A shadow under his head caught Brooklyn’s attention. Was that blood running from his ear or just a shadow from the harsh stage light?

  Nobody looked at him inside the ring—everyone’s attention was on Odysseus, and Brooklyn couldn’t muster enough strength to fight off Rose, whose broad hand pressed between his shoulder blades, the other hand on his arm, all but pushing him along.

  He made it somehow into the changing rooms, where Eric and Emanuel took up guard outside and Rose and Santos stayed inside with him. Brooklyn didn’t know where to look and then realised he was carrying the fucking belt. He tossed the thing against the nearest wall with a growl.

  Deep in his gut sat the icy knowledge that Odysseus wouldn’t get up again. He couldn’t know that—but he felt it. Maybe some primal thing inside him, something from the age of dinosaurs, told him Odysseus was dying. Maybe already dead. Like he’d known the same thing about Jessica, once he’d seen the way her skull was deformed. The horror crawled towards his throat, and he felt on the verge of throwing up. Santos’s dark eyes knew too much. He didn’t say anything, didn’t lie to him, which was maybe not as bad as being lied to, but still fucking horrible.

  Rose looked on, concerned. But he, too, offered nothing.

  Brooklyn turned around and slammed his gloved fists so hard into the concrete wall, he felt the pain down into his toes. Immediately, a large body was on him, holding him back from doing it again—and again and again—until the same hands that had killed two people were nothing but blood and bone shards.

  “No, Brook!” Rose shouted at him. “Don’t do this!” His Cuban accent was stronger when he was agitated, but Brooklyn found nothing there he could hold on to. He struggled, tried to break free, and was glad to have actual resistance he could fight against. Rose was rested, though, and held him close, and tight, not allowing him to hit anything.