“Hold my drink, Rusty.”
The crowd parted with a low murmur of confusion as the large older Black man stepped off the sticky floor and approached the edge of the mats. He didn’t vault over the makeshift rope barrier. He awkwardly lifted one leg over the rope, then the other, looking like a grandfather stepping over a low fence to check on a stray calf.
Trent stopped his shadowboxing. He dropped his hands to his hips, a smirk cutting across his face. He looked Big Eli up and down—the muddy boots, the oil-stained shirt, the slight stoop in his powerful posture. “You lost, old man?” Trent asked.
The crowd snickered.
“I heard $500,” Big Eli said. His voice barely carried over the whir of the industrial fans. He didn’t look Trent in the eye. He looked at the duct tape holding the blue mats together. It was peeling at the corners.
“You got a death wish, grandpa,” Trent laughed, stepping closer. He invaded Big Eli’s personal space, trying to force eye contact. Up close, Trent smelled like spearmint gum and raw adrenaline. His pupils were blown wide. “I hit hard. I’m not going to go easy on you just because you got dirt on your jeans.”