"Three minutes," he said. "That's all I'm asking."
Someone laughed.
Trent raised a hand.
"Anyone can try."
A man stepped onto the mat.
The crowd cheered.
Clayton watched.
The man lasted forty seconds.
Trent dropped him with a body shot.
Another man tried.
One minute.
Then another.
Two minutes.
Nobody made it to the buzzer.
Every time someone quit, Trent laughed.
"That's it?"
"Come on!"
"Where are all the tough guys?"
Clayton turned away.
"Let's go."
Ray grabbed his arm.
"Wait."
Clayton looked at him.
"Why?"
Ray nodded toward the floor.
Trent was looking directly at Clayton.
"You."
Clayton pointed at himself.
"Me?"
Trent laughed.
"Yeah. Farmer."
The room quieted.
Clayton walked closer.
"I'm not a fighter."
"Neither were the other guys."
"I've got work."
Trent pulled out his wallet.
"Fifty dollars."
Clayton stared at him.
Trent peeled off a bill.
"You stay on your feet for three minutes, it's yours."
Someone laughed.
Clayton looked at the fifty.
Then at Trent.
Then at his own hands.
Five hundred dollars for a new alternator.
Fifty dollars would not solve his problem.
But it was fifty dollars.
And his daughter needed books.
He slowly removed his jacket.
Ray's smile disappeared.
"Clayton..."
Clayton stepped onto the mat.
The room erupted.
Trent looked delighted.
"Seriously?"
Clayton nodded.
"Three minutes."
Trent laughed.
"You sure about this?"
Clayton tightened the laces on his work boots.
"I didn't come here to talk."
The crowd went silent.
The timer was set.
Three minutes.
Trent raised his hands.
Clayton stood opposite him.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then the bell rang.
And Clayton James stopped looking like a farmer.
The First Thirty Seconds
Trent moved first.
Fast.
Much faster than Clayton expected.
He crossed the mat with a sharp jab followed by a low kick.
Clayton stepped aside.
The kick missed.
A murmur moved through the room.
Trent smiled.
"Okay."
He attacked again.
This time with a combination.
Jab.
Cross.
Hook.
Clayton blocked the first two.
The hook grazed his shoulder.
He took one step backward.
Trent followed.
"That's better."
Clayton said nothing.
His eyes stayed on Trent's chest.
Not his hands.
Not his face.
His chest.
Ray watched from the side of the mat.
Something about Clayton's stance bothered him.
It wasn't a farmer's stance.
It wasn't even the stance of an old man trying to survive three minutes.
His feet were too balanced.
His weight was too controlled.
His shoulders were loose.
And his eyes were completely calm.
Trent threw another combination.
Clayton slipped the first punch.
Parried the second.
Then caught Trent's wrist.
Only for a fraction of a second.
But it was enough.
Clayton turned his body.
Trent stumbled forward.
The crowd gasped.
Clayton released him.
Trent spun around.
"What was that?"
Clayton shrugged.
"Nothing."
The crowd laughed.
Trent didn't.
He rushed forward.
This time Clayton didn't retreat.
He stepped inside.
Their shoulders collided.
Clayton caught Trent's arm, shifted his weight, and sent the younger man stumbling past him.
Trent recovered immediately.
His face changed.
The playful expression was gone.
"You're a lot quicker than you look."
Clayton wiped sweat from his forehead.
"I'm tired."
Someone laughed.
Trent attacked.
The next exchange was brutal.
Trent landed a punch against Clayton's ribs.
Clayton absorbed it.
Another hit his shoulder.
Clayton moved backward.
Trent smelled blood.
He pressed harder.
"Come on!"
A left hook.
Clayton blocked.
A knee.
Clayton turned.
A right hand.
Clayton ducked.
Thirty seconds had passed.
The clock showed:
2:30
Clayton heard the crowd.
He heard Trent breathing.
He heard his own heartbeat.
But underneath all of it, another sound emerged.
A memory.
A different place.
A different time.
Dust.
Heat.
A distant engine.
A radio crackling.
A voice shouting his name.
Clayton blinked.
For an instant, the gym disappeared.
He was twenty-three again.
He was somewhere overseas.
He was carrying more than a rifle.
He was carrying three lives on his back.
Then the memory vanished.
Clayton returned to the present.
Trent threw another punch.
Clayton slipped it.
Trent's fist passed inches from his face.
Clayton could have countered.
He didn't.
Instead, he stepped back.
Trent smiled.
"You scared?"
Clayton looked at the timer.
"Two minutes and thirty seconds."
Trent followed his eyes.
"Yeah."
Clayton looked back at him.
"You're wasting time."
The crowd laughed.
Trent's face tightened.
He attacked again.
This time Clayton moved.
Not backward.
Forward.
His shoulder struck Trent's chest.
His hand controlled the younger man's elbow.
His foot swept behind Trent's ankle.
Trent dropped to one knee.
The crowd exploded.
Clayton released him immediately.
Trent stood.
His breathing had changed.
"Who taught you that?"
Clayton said nothing.
"Who?"
"Nobody."
Trent laughed bitterly.
"You're lying."
Clayton looked toward the clock.
1:58
Less than two minutes.
He could do that.
He had done harder things.
Much harder.
Trent charged.
Clayton's body reacted before his mind did.
He caught Trent's wrist.
Turned.
Moved.
Trent's balance disappeared.
The young man crashed onto the mat.
Silence.
Clayton stepped away.
Trent stared upward.
His friends were no longer laughing.
The timer continued.
1:41
Trent slowly rose.
His face was red.
"You think this is funny?"
"No."
"Then why are you smiling?"
Clayton touched the corner of his mouth.
He hadn't realized he was.
"Because I know you."
Trent frowned.
"You don't know anything about me."
Clayton looked at him.
"I know what you're doing."
"What?"
"You're trying to prove you're not afraid."
The room became completely silent.
Trent's jaw tightened.
Clayton continued.
"That's why you're rushing."
For the first time that evening, Trent hesitated.
Clayton saw it.
The hesitation lasted less than a second.
But experienced eyes notice small things.
Clayton had spent years learning to notice them.
The way a machine sounded before it failed.
The way a horse moved before it kicked.
The way a person breathed before they panicked.
The way an enemy looked before they attacked.
Trent came forward.
Clayton was ready.
The young man threw a right hand.
Clayton moved.
A left.
Clayton blocked.
A kick.
Clayton checked it.
Then Clayton stepped inside and placed one hand against Trent's shoulder.
He didn't strike.