It was a clumsy, heavy push. Trent crashed backward onto the foam mats, his breath leaving him in a loud oof.
The crowd fell dead silent. The jukebox in the corner seemed to suddenly blare louder, a tinny country song mocking the tension. Trent scrambled to his feet, his face flushing crimson. The smirk was gone, replaced by a tight, furious grimace. He felt humiliated. A dirt-poor old Black farmer had just dumped him on his back.
Big Eli stood exactly where he had been. He wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his greasy thumb. He looked at the red smear on his dark skin. He felt the heavy, rhythmic thumping of his heart in his chest. He didn’t want to be here. He hated the adrenaline flooding his veins. It felt like poison.
Chapter 10: Shifting Ground
“You’re dead!” Trent hissed, shifting his stance. He dropped his hand slightly, preparing for a takedown. He was going to take the farmer to the ground, mount him, and cave his face in.
Big Eli sighed, a short, ragged breath. He rolled his broad shoulders, feeling the joints pop. He stopped 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, relaxed.