“I heard $500,” Big Eli said. His voice barely carried over the whir of the industrial fans. He didn’t look Trent in the eye. He looked at the duct tape holding the blue mats together. It was peeling at the corners.
“You got a death wish, grandpa,” Trent laughed, stepping closer. He invaded Big Eli’s personal space, trying to force eye contact. Up close, Trent smelled like spearmint gum and raw adrenaline. His pupils were blown wide. “I hit hard. I’m not going to go easy on you just because you got dirt on your jeans.”
Chapter 7: Solid Bone
Big Eli slowly reached down and untied his work boots. He pulled them off, placing them neatly outside the ring. He peeled off his thick wool socks next. His large, pale-soled bare feet stepped onto the mats. They were scarred with thick calluses built up from years of walking on uneven furrows and decades of hard living.
“Just ring the bell, Trent,” Big Eli said mildly.
Rusty walked to the edge of the mat holding a thick wad of bills. He looked at Big Eli with genuine pity. “All right. Three minutes. You go limp, you tap, or you don’t get up, it’s over. No eye gouging, no biting.”