“Nobody Can Beat Me,” the Black Belt Boasted — Until a Single Dad Entered the Ring
Chapter 8
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They hurt. Each one felt like a baseball bat to the rib cage. But William had spent the last 20 years wedging his body into crawl spaces, tearing out heavy, rusted cast-iron piping, and hauling 100-pound tool bags up flights of stairs; his pain tolerance was a deep, dark well, and Trent hadn't even scraped the bottom yet.William clamped down harder on Trent's neck. He dug his chin into Trent's collarbone, pressing his full dead weight against the younger man. He made Trent carry him. Every second they stood there locked together, Trent's legs were burning energy just to stay upright."Break! Break it up!" the referee shouted, stepping in and prying his arms between them. "No clinching. This is a striking match. Step back."The ref shoved them apart. When Trent stepped back, his mouth was open. He was sucking in air. His perfectly styled hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. There was a red, angry rash developing on his neck where William's rough gloves had scraped his skin.William didn't back up. He just stood his ground, dragging his left foot slightly as the damaged muscle in his thigh tightened into a severe cramp. His breath came in ragged, wheezing pulls. His nose was bleeding freely now, dripping down his chin and staining the collar of his gray shirt. He looked like hell. He felt like hell. But he stepped forward.1 minute and 15 seconds left.The crowd had changed. The frat boys and teenagers who had been jeering and filming were suddenly quiet. The silence was thick, heavy, and pregnant with a strange tension. They weren't watching a highlight reel anymore; they were watching a mugging in reverse. They were watching a ghost refuse to die.A heavy-set guy in a union T-shirt near the front row leaned over the barricade. "Come on, old man! Walk him down! He's getting tired!"Trent heard it. His eyes darted to the crowd, then to his cameraman, who was still circling the apron. The narrative was crumbling. The footage of him struggling to put away a random dad in a parking lot was going to ruin him online. He needed a highlight; he needed a clean knockout.Desperation makes fighters sloppy. Trent dropped his hands and threw a spinning wheel kick. It was a high-risk, high-reward move: if it landed, it was an instant viral knockout; but it required perfect balance and immense energy.William saw the pivot. He saw Trent turn his back. He didn't have the speed to dodge it, and he knew if he blocked it with his forearms, the sheer force might shatter his radius. So William did the only thing he could: he charged blindly.As Trent's leg whipped around in a lethal arc, William ducked his head and threw his right hand in a wide, ugly, sweeping hook. He threw it with the mechanical, full-body rotation he used to swing a sledgehammer against a frozen concrete slab.Trent's heel clipped the top of William's head, scraping away hair and skin, but the rotation was thrown off by William's forward momentum. A split second later, William's heavy right glove slammed into Trent's rib cage. It wasn't a snap; it was a thud—a deep, hollow sound, like a wet sandbag hitting a hardwood floor.