Big Eli felt a flash of white light behind his eyes. A dull, sickening wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. It hurt. It hurt badly. He wasn’t invincible. He was sixty-four years old. His knees ached from the damp, and his lower back was a constant knot of pain. He tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood where he had bitten the inside of his cheek.
“Stay small.” A cold, dead voice whispered in his mind. The voice he hadn’t heard since the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam. “Let him work. Watch his hips.”
Trent, angered by his own mistake, unleashed a flurry. A jab snapped Big Eli’s head back. A vicious low kick slammed into Big Eli’s left thigh. The sound of flesh on flesh, a wet, heavy thwack, made a woman in the front row gasp. Big Eli stumbled, his leg buckling slightly.
“Come on, old man,” Trent spat, smelling blood. He threw a high roundhouse kick, aiming for Big Eli’s temple.
Big Eli’s reaction was entirely devoid of grace. It was ugly, born of survival rather than sport. He didn’t try to block the kick; he stepped into it. He lunged forward, closing the space before the leg could generate full momentum. Trent’s shin slapped harmlessly against Big Eli’s thick ribs wrapping around his back. With Trent balanced on one leg, his momentum compromised, Big Eli just leaned his heavy weight forward and shoved.