"I heard 500 dollars," Big Eli said. He didn’t look Trent in the eye. He looked at the peeling duct tape holding the blue mats together.
"You got a death wish, grandpa," Trent laughed, stepping into Big Eli’s personal space. Up close, Trent smelled like spearmint gum and raw adrenaline. "I hit hard. I’m not going to go easy on you just because you got dirt on your jeans."
Big Eli slowly reached down and untied his work boots, peeling off his thick wool socks next. His large, pale-soled bare feet stepped onto the mats, scarred with thick calluses built up from decades of hard living.
"Just ring the bell, Trent," Big Eli said mildly.
Rusty chopped his hand down. Trent closed the distance instantly. Disrespecting the old farmer, he didn’t bother with a feeler jab. He threw a heavy, looping overhand right, aiming to end it in three seconds.
Big Eli didn’t slip with the graceful fluidity of a boxer. He simply hunched his massive shoulders and tucked his chin—a brutal, pragmatic movement. Trent’s fist crashed into Big Eli’s forehead, the thickest, hardest bone in the human skull.
Crack.
Trent winced, stumbling back a half-step, shaking his right hand. Big Eli felt a flash of white light behind his eyes and a sickening wave of nausea. It hurt. It hurt badly. He wasn’t invincible; he was sixty-four, his knees ached, and he tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood in his cheek.
Stay small, a cold, dead voice whispered in his mind. The voice from the rice paddies. Let him work. Watch his hips.
Angered by his own mistake, Trent unleashed a flurry. A jab snapped Big Eli’s head back. A vicious low kick slammed into his left thigh with a wet, heavy thwack that made a woman in the front row gasp. Big Eli stumbled.
"Come on, old man!" Trent spat, smelling blood. He threw a high roundhouse kick, aiming for the temple.
Big Eli’s reaction was devoid of grace, born entirely of survival. He lunged forward, closing the space before the leg could generate momentum. Trent’s shin slapped harmlessly against Big Eli’s thick ribs. With Trent balanced on one leg, Big Eli just leaned his heavy weight forward and shoved. Trent crashed backward onto the foam mats with a loud oof.
The crowd fell dead silent. Trent scrambled to his feet, flushing crimson. The smirk was gone. A dirt-poor old farmer had just dumped him on his back.
Big Eli stood exactly where he had been, wiping a streak of blood from his mouth with a greasy thumb. "You’re dead!" Trent hissed. He dropped his hands slightly, preparing for a takedown to mount the old man and cave his face in.