He bounced from foot to foot, his breathing hissing through his teeth in sharp, rhythmic bursts. Rusty chopped his hand down. Trent closed the distance instantly. He didn't respect Clayton, which meant he didn't bother with a feeler jab. He threw a heavy looping overhand right, aiming to end it in seconds.
Clayton didn't slip with the graceful fluidity of a boxer. He simply hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin, a brutal, pragmatic movement. Trent's fist crashed into Clayton's forehead, the thickest, hardest bone in the human skull. A sickening crack echoed. Trent winced, stumbling back a half step, shaking his right hand.
He had aimed for the jaw and hit solid bone. Clayton felt a flash of white light behind his eyes. A dull, sickening wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. It hurt. It hurt badly.
He wasn't invincible. He was 38 years old. His knees ached from the damp, and his lower back was a constant knot of pain. He tasted metal where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. "Stay small." A cold, dead voice whispered in his mind.
The voice he hadn't heard since the dusty streets of Al Anbar. "Let him work. Watch his hips." Trent, angered by his own mistake, unleashed a flurry. A jab snapped Clayton's head back. A vicious low kick slammed into Clayton's left thigh.
The heavy impact made a woman in the front row gasp. Clayton stumbled, his leg buckling slightly. "Come on, dirt boy," Trent spat, sensing weakness. He threw a high roundhouse kick, aiming for Clayton's temple. Clayton's reaction was entirely devoid of grace.
It was ugly, born of survival rather than sport. He didn't try to block the kick, he stepped into it. He lunged forward closing the space before the leg could generate full momentum. Trent's shin slapped harmlessly against Clayton's ribs wrapping around his back. With Trent balanced on one leg, his momentum compromised, Clayton just leaned his weight forward and shoved.
It was a clumsy, heavy push. Trent crashed backward onto the foam mats, his breath leaving him in a loud oof. The crowd fell dead silent. The jukebox in the corner seemed to suddenly blare louder, a tinny country song mocking the tension. Trent scrambled to his feet, his face flushing crimson.
The smirk was gone, replaced by a tight, furious grimace. He felt humiliated. A dirt-poor farmer had just dumped him on his back. Clayton stood exactly where he had been. He wiped the corner of his mouth from the corner of his mouth with the back of his greasy thumb.
He looked at the mark on his skin. He felt the heavy, rhythmic thumping of his heart in his chest. He didn't want to be here. He hated the adrenaline flooding his veins. It felt like poison.
"You're dead!" Trent hissed, shifting his stance. He dropped his hand slightly preparing for a takedown. He meant to drag the farmer down and finish the contest in the most humiliating way he could. Clayton sighed, a short, ragged breath in the stale tavern air. He rolled his shoulders feeling the joints pop.
He stopped trying to look small. He squared his hips. His stance shifted from the awkward slouch of a tired farmer to a grounded, perfectly balanced base. He didn't raise his fists like a boxer, he kept his hands low, open, relaxed. Trent charged fanning a left hook and shooting for Clayton's waist.