Clayton ignored the posturing. He slowly reached down and untied his heavy leather work boots. He pulled them off, placing them neatly side-by-side outside the ring. He peeled off his thick, sweat-soaked wool socks next. His bare feet stepped onto the foam mats. They were pale, scarred, with thick, yellowed calluses built up from years of walking across uneven, frozen furrows and rocky soil.
"Just ring the bell, Trent," Clayton said mildly, his face a blank mask.
Rusty walked to the edge of the mat, holding a thick wad of crumpled bills. He looked at Clayton with genuine pity, a man watching a car crash in slow motion. "All right. Three minutes on the clock. You go limp, you tap the mat, or you don't get up, it's over. No eye gouging, no biting. Clean fight."
"Easy money," Trent announced to the room, raising his taped hands and playing to the audience. He bounced from foot to foot, his breathing hissing through his teeth in sharp, rhythmic, practiced bursts. Ts-ts-ts.
Rusty chopped his hand down.
Trent closed the distance instantly. He didn't respect Clayton, which meant he didn't bother with a jab to measure distance or feel out his opponent. He wanted a highlight-reel finish. He threw a massive, heavy, looping overhand right, putting every ounce of his hips into it, aiming to end the fight in three seconds.
Clayton didn't slip with the graceful fluidity of a trained boxer. He didn't weave. He simply hunched his heavy shoulders and tucked his chin down into his chest—a brutal, pragmatic, incredibly ugly movement designed solely for damage mitigation.
Trent's fist crashed full force into Clayton's forehead.
The forehead is the thickest, hardest, most unforgiving bone in the human skull. A sickening crack echoed over the music.
Trent winced instantly, stumbling back a half step, shaking his right hand in agony. He had aimed for the soft hinge of the jaw and hit a wall of solid calcium.
Clayton felt a blinding flash of white light explode behind his eyes. A dull, sickening wave of nausea rolled through his empty stomach. It hurt. It hurt badly. He wasn't invincible. He was thirty-eight years old. His knees perpetually ached from the damp morning air, and his lower back was a constant, throbbing knot of pain. He tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood in his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his cheek on impact.
Stay small, a cold, dead voice whispered in the deepest recesses of his mind. It was a voice he hadn't heard since the dusty, blood-soaked streets of Al Anbar province. Let him work. Watch his hips. Wait for the mistake.
Trent, humiliated and angered by his own tactical error, unleashed a furious flurry of strikes. A stiff jab snapped Clayton's head back. A vicious, whipping low kick slammed into Clayton's left thigh. The sound of flesh on flesh—a wet, heavy thwack—made a woman in the front row gasp and cover her mouth. Clayton stumbled, his leg buckling slightly under the immense force.
"Come on, dirt boy!" Trent spat, smelling blood in the water. He chambered his leg and threw a high roundhouse kick, aiming perfectly for Clayton's exposed temple.
Clayton's reaction was entirely devoid of athletic grace. It was an ugly, desperate movement born of battlefield survival rather than gym sport. He didn't try to block the heavy kick with his arms; he stepped directly into it. He lunged forward, closing the spatial distance before Trent's leg could generate its full, devastating momentum.
Trent's shin slapped harmlessly against Clayton's ribcage, his leg wrapping awkwardly around Clayton's back. With Trent balanced precariously on one leg, his kinetic momentum completely compromised, Clayton didn't strike. He just leaned his massive, dense weight forward and shoved.
It was a clumsy, heavy, farm-boy push.
Trent flew backward, his arms flailing, and crashed hard onto the thin foam mats. The breath left his lungs in a loud, explosive oof.
The boisterous crowd fell dead silent. The jukebox in the corner suddenly seemed to blare a thousand times louder, a tinny, upbeat country song mocking the sudden, suffocating tension in the room.
Trent scrambled frantically to his feet, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. The arrogant smirk was entirely gone, replaced by a tight, furious grimace. He felt profoundly humiliated. A dirt-poor, aging farmer had just dumped him on his back in front of his audience.
Clayton stood exactly where he had been. He raised his hand and wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his greasy thumb. He looked down at the red smear contrasting against the black engine oil on his skin. He felt the heavy, rhythmic thumping of his heart accelerating in his chest. He didn't want to be here. He hated the burning adrenaline flooding his veins. It felt like an addictive poison he had sworn off a decade ago.
"You're dead!" Trent hissed, shifting his stance aggressively. He dropped his lead hand slightly, his hips sinking, preparing for a wrestling takedown. He was going to take the farmer to the ground, mount his chest, and cave his face in until the duct tape ran red.
Clayton sighed. It was a short, ragged breath that smelled of stale beer and copper. He rolled his heavy shoulders, feeling the cartilage and joints pop in protest.