Big Eli set the glass down. It made a dull, heavy thud on the wood. He rubbed the back of his thick neck, feeling the tight coiled muscles there. He didn’t feel heroic. He felt deeply, profoundly tired.
“Hold my drink, Rusty.”
The crowd parted with a low murmur of confusion as the large older Black man stepped off the sticky floor and approached the edge of the mats. He didn’t vault over the makeshift rope barrier. He awkwardly lifted one leg over the rope, then the other, looking like a grandfather stepping over a low fence to check on a stray calf.
Trent stopped his shadowboxing. He dropped his hands to his hips, a smirk cutting across his face. He looked Big Eli up and down—the muddy boots, the oil-stained shirt, the slight stoop in his powerful posture. “You lost, old man?” Trent asked.
The crowd snickered.