Rusty leaned closer.
"Don't."
Clayton raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to."
Clayton took another drink.
Then he heard Trent say something.
"Come on. Anybody."
The crowd laughed.
Trent looked around.
"Five hundred dollars for three minutes. You don't have to beat me. Just stay standing."
Clayton looked at the five hundred-dollar bills in the man's hand.
His stomach tightened.
Five hundred dollars.
Exactly what he needed.
The thought came and went.
He dismissed it.
Then he thought about the wheat.
The mortgage.
The dead combine.
The eighty-three dollars.
He closed his eyes.
For one brief second, the noise of the tavern disappeared.
He was back in Ramadi.
Dust.
Smoke.
A vehicle burning.
A young soldier yelling for a medic.
Clayton opened his eyes.
Trent was still talking.
"Where are the farmers tonight?"
The crowd laughed.
Clayton finished his club soda.
Rusty watched him carefully.
"Go home."
Clayton set the glass down.
"How much is the entry?"
Rusty's face changed.
"Clayton."
"How much?"
"Twenty dollars."
Clayton reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty.
Rusty stared at him.
"You don't have to do this."
Clayton nodded.
"I know."
He walked toward the mats.
The crowd gradually quieted.
Trent looked at him.
Then he laughed.
"You serious?"
Clayton stopped at the edge of the mat.
"Three minutes?"
Trent grinned.
"Three minutes."
Clayton removed his boots.
Then his socks.
He rolled his shoulders.
The old pain in his left knee complained.
His back felt stiff.
His fingers trembled slightly.
But something else was happening.
Something he hadn't felt in years.
His body was remembering.
Trent bounced lightly on his feet.
"Don't worry, farmer. I'll go easy."
Clayton looked at him.
"No."
The young man's smile faded slightly.
Clayton stepped onto the mat.
"Don't."
The room became silent.
Nobody noticed the way Clayton positioned his feet.
Nobody noticed how his hands rose.
But an older man sitting near the wall did.
His name was Walter Briggs.
And the moment he saw Clayton's stance, the color drained from his face.
Walter whispered one sentence.
"Where did that man learn to fight?"
The timer was raised.
Three minutes.
Five hundred dollars.
And Clayton James was about to show everyone that the quietest man in the room was not necessarily the weakest.
Three Minutes
The timer beeped.
Trent moved first.
He always did.
Young fighters liked to establish control early.
They liked the psychological effect of pressure.
Trent stepped forward and threw a quick jab.
Clayton slipped it.
The movement was so small that most people didn't notice.
Trent threw a second punch.
Clayton moved again.
The crowd laughed nervously.
"He's running!"
Trent smiled.
"Come on, old man."
Clayton didn't answer.
He watched Trent's shoulders.
Not his fists.
His shoulders.
The shoulder moved before the punch.
The hips moved before the kick.
The eyes moved before the intention.
Clayton had learned that long before he learned farming.
Trent stepped in aggressively.
Right hand.
Left hook.
Low kick.
Clayton blocked the kick with his shin and took two steps backward.
The impact hurt.
He felt the old ache in his leg immediately.
Trent saw it.
"Got you."
He rushed forward.
Clayton waited.
At the last second, he pivoted.
Trent's momentum carried him past.
A few people laughed.
Trent stopped.
His expression had changed.
Clayton stood calmly in the center of the mat.
"What's wrong?" someone shouted.
"Hit him!"
Trent came forward again.
This time, he threw a combination.
Jab.
Cross.
Hook.
Clayton parried the jab.
Turned his shoulder against the cross.
Stepped inside the hook.
His left hand touched Trent's chest.
Not a punch.
Just a touch.
Then Clayton moved away.
Trent stared at him.
Clayton's face remained expressionless.
Rusty looked at the timer.
Thirty-eight seconds.
Three minutes suddenly seemed much longer.
Trent attacked again.
This time, Clayton didn't retreat.
He stepped toward him.
Their bodies collided.
Clayton caught Trent's right arm.
His hand closed around the young man's wrist.
For one moment, the farmer's fingers looked almost delicate.
Then Trent's face changed.
Clayton turned.
A simple leverage movement.
Trent stumbled.
Clayton released him.
The crowd stopped laughing.
Someone whispered:
"What was that?"
Trent's face reddened.
"You're lucky."
Clayton said nothing.
Trent charged.
Clayton sidestepped.
Trent swung.
Clayton ducked.
Trent's fist passed inches above his head.
Clayton drove a short strike into Trent's ribs.
The sound was dull.
Trent gasped.
Clayton immediately stepped back.
No celebration.
No smile.
No arrogance.
Just distance.
Trent touched his ribs.
"You hit hard."
Clayton shrugged.
"Farm work."
The crowd laughed.
This time, Trent didn't.
The timer showed one minute and twelve seconds.
He was beginning to breathe harder.
Clayton was breathing too.
But his breathing was controlled.
Slow.
Measured.
Almost strangely calm.
Trent circled.
"You trained."
Clayton looked at him.
"Everybody trains."
"Not like that."
Clayton said nothing.
Trent suddenly shot for a takedown.
Clayton sprawled.
The young fighter grabbed for his legs.
Clayton shifted his weight.
His left hand controlled Trent's shoulder.
His right arm wrapped around the neck.