His strikes cut through the stagnant air.
The crowd watched with admiration.
Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns away.
He had three amateur MMA belts.
A large tattoo wrapped around his bicep.
And the kind of loud, unearned confidence that made Big Eli's stomach churn.
Not from fear.
From exhaustion.
Then Trent shouted to the crowd.
"Three minutes!"
He raised his taped hands.
"Anyone lasts three minutes, you walk away with $500 cash!"
The crowd roared.
"No gloves! Submission or knockout!"
Trent wasn't really fighting for the money.
He was fighting for the dopamine rush of watching someone weaker fold beneath his hands.
He threw a spinning kick.
Technically perfect.
Beautiful, even.
The crowd collectively oohed.
But Big Eli wasn't watching Trent's hands.
He was watching his feet.
They were clean.
Uncalloused.
The feet of a man who fought on padded mats beneath fluorescent lights, with a referee nearby to make sure nobody actually died.
"$500," Big Eli muttered.
He stared down at his club soda.
Rusty stopped smiling.
"Don't do it, Eli."
His voice became serious.
"That kid's broken two jaws this month. He's fast, and he likes hurting people."
Big Eli closed his eyes.
The headache at the base of his skull throbbed.
He hated violence.
He had spent his twenties drowning in it.
As a young soldier in Vietnam, he hadn't merely witnessed violence.
He had survived it.
For forty years, he had tried to bury that cold, calculating part of himself beneath hard labor, responsibility, and family.
He had raised his daughter alone after her mother died.
Later, he raised her son after she passed away.
He wanted no part of this.
But the tractor needed an alternator.
His grandson needed the farm.
Big Eli opened his eyes.
He set the glass down.
Thud.
"Hold my drink, Rusty."
The crowd parted.
A low murmur spread through the room.
The large older Black man walked toward the ring.
He didn't climb over the rope like a fighter.
He awkwardly lifted one leg over it.
Then the other.
He looked more like a grandfather stepping over a low fence to check on a stray calf.
Trent stopped shadowboxing.
His hands dropped to his hips.
A smirk spread across his face.
He looked Big Eli up and down.
The muddy boots.
The oil-stained shirt.
The slight stoop in his posture.
"You lost, old man?"
The crowd snickered.
"I heard $500," Big Eli said.
His voice barely carried over the industrial fans.
He didn't look Trent in the eye.
Instead, he looked at the duct tape holding the blue mats together.
It was peeling at the corners.
Trent stepped closer.
"You got a death wish, grandpa?"
He laughed.
"I hit hard. I'm not going to go easy on you just because you got dirt on your jeans."