trying to look small.
He squared his hips. His stance shifted from the awkward
slouch of a tired old farmer to a grounded, perfectly
balanced base. He didn't raise his fists like a boxer; he kept
his hands low, open, and relaxed.
Trent charged, fanning a left hook and shooting for Big
Eli’s waist. He expected the old man to sprawl, panic, or
stumble backward clumsily. Instead, the humid air of the
pole barn dissolved.
Big Eli's mind snapped back to a steaming rice paddy in
'69. The noise of the tavern faded, replaced by the phantom
whir of Huey blades. The survival instincts that had kept
him breathing when his platoon was ambushed flared to
life. As Trent drove in, Big Eli simply pivoted. He guided
Trent’s momentum past him with a heavy, calloused hand
against the younger man’s neck.
"Lfighter could recover, Big Eli’s massive hand clamped onto
his wrist with the immovable grip of a vice.
With a swift, brutal torque that completely defied his age,
Eli twisted Trent’s arm behind his back and kicked the
back of Trent’s knee. The cocky fighter went down hard,