“Nobody Can Beat Me,” the Black Belt Boasted — Until a Single Dad Entered the Ring
Chapter 5
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"You need gloves," the referee said, tossing William a pair of oversized, heavily padded blue sparring gloves.William caught them. He slipped his hands inside; they felt clumsy, completely foreign compared to the heavy wrenches and copper pipes he was used to gripping. He tightened the Velcro straps with his teeth.The referee called them to the center of the ring. "All right, gentlemen. Three-minute round. Standard striking rules: no elbows, no knees to the head, no takedowns. You protect yourself at all times. If I tell you to stop, you stop. Do you understand?"Trent tapped his gloves together. "Yeah."William gave a single, brief nod."Touch gloves and go to your corners."Trent extended his gloves. William didn't move; he just stared at Trent's chest, watching the rise and fall of the younger man's breathing. Trent scoffed, dropped his hands, and backed up to his corner.Outside the ring, William caught sight of Maya. She was clutching the plastic grocery bags to her chest, her knuckles white. She looked terrified.William swallowed hard.Three minutes. Just endure. You've endured a lifetime of this. It's just three minutes.The MC raised his hand. The crowd pushed closer, sensing blood. The camera lens zoomed in on William's tired face."Timekeeper ready?" the MC shouted. A teenager with a stopwatch nodded. "Ring the bell!"Ding.Trent didn't wait. He crossed the distance of the ring in two explosive steps—a blur of motion meant to overwhelm and intimidate. He let out a sharp hiss and threw a blistering left jab, followed immediately by a right cross aimed straight down the pipe at William's nose.William didn't try to slip the punch like a boxer; he didn't have the fast-twitch reflexes for it anymore. Instead, he simply tucked his chin to his chest and raised both padded gloves to his forehead in a tight, ugly shell.Smack. Thud.The blows hit William's forearms with the force of a swinging baseball bat. The impact drove him backward a half-step.Trent was fast, terrifyingly fast. Before William could even register the weight of the punches, Trent pivoted on his lead foot and threw a vicious low kick. His shin slammed into the meaty part of William's left thigh.Crack.The sound echoed across the parking lot. The crowd winced in unison. William's leg buckled. Fire shot up his hip and down into his knee—it was the exact knee with the bad meniscus. For a split second, his brain flashed white with pain.But William had been hit by a falling air compressor unit two years ago that weighed 150 pounds; he had finished his shift before driving himself to urgent care. Pain was just information: it told you where your limits were. William shifted his weight, planted his damaged leg firmly into the canvas, and refused to fall.Trent looked surprised; usually, that leg kick folded amateurs like a cheap lawn chair. He smirked, circled to his left, and threw a flurry of combinations: jab, cross, hook.