“Nobody Can Beat Me,” the Black Belt Boasted — Until a Single Dad Entered the Ring
Chapter 4
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The MC looked down. He saw a man in grease-stained denim, a faded gray T-shirt tucked into a cracked leather belt, and work boots coated in a fine layer of drywall dust. William's face was unreadable."Can I help you, buddy?" the MC asked, a patronizing smirk playing on his lips. "Restrooms are inside the store.""The sign says 5,000 if you last three minutes," William said. He pointed a thick, calloused finger at the acrylic briefcase. "Is that real money, or is this just a circus act?"The crowd around them went dead silent. A few people chuckled, sensing a joke.Trent stopped his shadowboxing. He walked over to the ropes, resting his gloved forearms on the top cord, and looked down at William. A slow, arrogant smile spread across his face."It's real money, pops," Trent said. He looked William up and down, taking in the graying hair at his temples, the slight slump of his shoulders, the obvious exhaustion radiating from him. "But you got to read the fine print: you have to sign a medical waiver. Because when I put you to sleep, I'm not paying your hospital bill.""I don't have medical insurance, anyway," William said flatly. "Hand me the pen."Trent laughed; it was a sharp, barking sound. He looked at his cameraman, a kid in a bucket hat circling the ring with a Sony mirrorless camera. "You getting this? We got a blue-collar hero stepping up."The MC hesitated. He looked at Trent, then at William. "Sir, I don't think you understand. Trent is a professional. This isn't a tough-man contest at a bar. He will hurt you. We don't want to see anybody get seriously injured.""Three minutes," William repeated, locking eyes with Trent. "Unless the boy is scared he can't finish the job."An audible ooh rippled through the crowd. Cell phones angled higher; the teenager next to Maya started livestreaming.Trent's smile vanished. His jaw tightened. The influencer facade cracked just a fraction, revealing the fragile, aggressive ego underneath. He pointed his glove at the MC. "Give him the waiver. Let him in."The MC sighed, pulling a clipboard from the scorer's table and handing it down to William. William took a cheap plastic pen and scrawled his name at the bottom of the dense legal text without reading a single word; he didn't care if he was signing away his soul—he just needed the five grand. He handed the clipboard back."Take your boots off," the referee barked, leaning over the ropes. "No hard-soled shoes on the mat."William sat on the edge of the platform and unlaced his heavy steel-toed boots. He peeled them off, revealing a pair of gray wool socks that had seen better days. He stood up in his socks, grabbed the top rope, and pulled himself into the ring.The contrast between the two men was almost comical. Trent looked like he was engineered in a sports science laboratory: his muscles were lean, defined, and flushed with blood; he was bouncing lightly on his toes, his hands wrapped perfectly in red tape inside his gloves. William looked like a man who had just finished a 12-hour shift in a coal mine: he didn't stretch, he didn't bounce, he just stood there, his shoulders slightly rounded, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He hadn't even taken his T-shirt off.