“Nobody Can Beat Me,” the Black Belt Boasted — Until a Single Dad Entered the Ring
Chapter 6
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William kept his guard high, elbows tight against his ribs. He absorbed the shots; they battered against his arms and shoulders, every impact jarring his teeth. His heavy gray T-shirt quickly darkened with sweat. He was breathing heavily, his lungs burning from the stagnant humidity and the sheer adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream.45 seconds in, Trent was putting on a clinic. He was throwing flashy spinning back kicks that glanced off William's shoulders. He was taunting, dropping his hands, smiling for the camera."Come on, old man," Trent barked, snapping a front kick straight into William's stomach.The kick landed flush on William's diaphragm. The breath left his lungs in a ragged wheeze; he stumbled backward, his back hitting the ropes. The crowd went wild."Finish him!" someone yelled from the back.Trent closed in, smelling blood. He loaded up his right hand, dipping his shoulder, preparing to throw a devastating overhand right that would turn the lights out.William saw the shift in Trent's hips. He saw the way the younger fighter planted his feet, committing all his weight to the knockout blow. William didn't back up. He didn't try to block it. Instead, he did something incredibly stupid and entirely born of instinct.As Trent launched the overhand right, William stepped forward. He stepped directly inside Trent's striking range, smothering the punch before it could reach peak velocity. The punch glanced awkwardly off the top of William's head, scraping his scalp. But now, William was inside.Trent's eyes widened. For the first time, he realized how heavy William was. William wasn't built for speed, but his body was dense with years of lifting cast-iron boilers and wrestling with stubborn pipe wrenches. William dropped his hips, lowering his center of gravity, and drove his shoulder hard into Trent's chest. It wasn't a strike; it was a shove. But it was backed by 210 pounds of desperate, grounded dad strength.Trent, caught off balance and expecting William to fall away, was violently propelled backward. His feet tangled. He flew backward and crashed hard onto the canvas, his back smacking the mat with a loud thud.The crowd gasped. The cheering stopped instantly.William didn't follow him down; the rules strictly forbade ground fighting. He just stood there, breathing in ragged, wet gasps, his hands still raised in that ugly, impenetrable guard. His left eye was starting to swell from a glancing jab, and a thin line of blood trickled from his nose, painting a red streak over his lips.Trent scrambled to his feet, his face flushing crimson. The influencer smile was gone; the calm, collected demeanor of the professional was shattered. He looked humiliated. He had just been put on his ass by a middle-aged plumber in front of 200 cell phone cameras."One minute down!" the timekeeper shouted.Trent let out a primal yell and charged. He abandoned technique; he abandoned the clean, crisp striking that had won him regional titles. He threw a wild, looping head kick aimed directly at William's temple.William saw it coming. He raised his right glove, blocking the brunt of the impact, but the force of the kick sent him staggering sideways. His ear rang with a high-pitched whine. His vision blurred.