Trent was 24, aggressively tanned and smelled violently of aerosol body spray. He wore black board shorts and tightly wrapped hand tape. He was bouncing on his toes throwing lightning fast jabs at the empty air. A sharp snap-snap echoed as his punches broke the stagnant air.
Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns over. He had three amateur MMA belts, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his bicep, and the kind of loud, unearned confidence that made Clayton’s stomach physically churn. Not with fear, with a bone-deep exhaustion. “Three minutes!” Trent shouted to the crowd, his voice cracking slightly with adrenaline.
“Anyone last three minutes, you walk away with $500 cash. No gloves, submission or knockout.” Trent wasn’t fighting for the money. He was fighting for the dopamine hit of watching someone lesser fold under his hands. Clayton watched him throw a spinning hook kick.
It was technically perfect, beautiful even. The crowd of mechanics and mill workers collectively oohed. Clayton stared at Trent’s feet. They were clean, uncalloused, the feet of a man who fought on padded mats under bright fluorescent lights with a referee standing by to make sure nobody actually died.
“$500,” Clayton muttered staring into his club soda. “Don’t do it, James,” Rusty warned, his tone dropping the jovial bartender act. “That kid’s broken two jaws this month. He’s fast, and he likes hurting people.” Clayton closed his eyes.
The headache at the base of his skull throbbed. He hated violence. He had spent his 20s drowning in it. As a SEAL officer, he hadn’t just committed violence, he had orchestrated it.
He had sent boys younger than Trent into mud-brick compounds where the air smelled of cordite and voided bowels. He had spent the last eight years trying to scrub that cold, calculating part of his brain out with manual labor and silence. But the tractor needed an alternator. Clayton set the glass down.
It made a dull, heavy thud on the wood. He rubbed the back of his neck feeling the tight coiled muscles there. He didn’t feel heroic. He felt deeply, profoundly tired.
“Hold my drink, Rusty.” The crowd parted with a low murmur of confusion as Clayton stepped off the sticky floor and approached the edge of the mats. He didn’t vault over the makeshift rope barrier. He didn’t puff out his chest. He awkwardly lifted one leg over the rope, then the other, looking like a man 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 Clayton up and down, the muddy boots, the oil-stained shirt, the slight stoop in his posture. “You lost, old man.” Trent asked.
The crowd snickered. “I heard $500.” Clayton said. His voice barely carried over the whir of the industrial fans. He didn’t look Trent in the eye.