Trent thrashed wildly, bucking and twisting, his aerosol scent suffocated by the smell of diesel and damp earth radiating off the old farmer. It was like trying to buck off an anvil. Big Eli lay heavy, breathing steadily through his nose, his eyes fixed on the cracked face of the digital clock on the far wall.
Forty-five seconds left.
“Get off me!” Trent roared, his voice muffled by the foam mat. He managed to free one arm and blindly swung backward, his knuckles scraping harmlessly against Eli's thick canvas overalls.
Big Eli tightened his grip just a fraction. A subtle warning. The leverage pressed Trent's face deeper into the floor, cutting off his air supply enough to induce panic but not enough to cause damage.
"Save your breath, son," Eli murmured, his gravelly voice meant only for the boy beneath him.
The crowd was screaming now, a mix of disbelief and raucous cheers. Thirty seconds. Twenty. Trent's frantic struggling turned into exhausted, gasping heaves. The explosive energy of youth was completely neutralized by the immovable patience of old age.
"Time!" Rusty bellowed, chopping his hand down on the bar top. "That's three minutes!"
Big Eli didn't hesitate. The second he heard the word, he released his grip and pushed himself up. His knees cracked loudly as he stood. He didn't look at Trent, who rolled onto his back, chest heaving, his face bright red with exertion and profound embarrassment.