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, but with bone-deep exhaustion. "Three minutes!" Trent shouted to the crowd, his voice cracking slightly with adrenaline. "Anyone who lasts three minutes walks away with $500 in 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 let out a collective murmur of approval. 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 has seriously hurt two men 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 twenties drowning in it. As a former military officer, he had not merely witnessed violence; he had been responsible for decisions made inside it. He had sent men younger than Trent into dangerous places where the air smelled of smoke, dust, and fear.
He had spent the last 8 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. He looked at the duct tape holding the blue mats together.
It was peeling at the corners. "You got a death wish, farmer?" Trent laughed, stepping closer. He invaded Clayton'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." Clayton slowly reached down and untied his work boots. He pulled them off, placing them neatly outside the ring. He peeled off his thick wool socks next. His bare feet stepped onto the mats.
They were pale, scarred with thick calluses built up from years of walking on uneven furrows. "Just ring the bell, Trent," Clayton said mildly. Rusty walked to the edge of the mat holding a thick wad of bills. He looked at Clayton with genuine pity. "All right. Three minutes. You go limp, you tap, or you do not get up, it is over. No eye gouging. No biting." "Easy money," Trent announced to the room, raising his taped hands.