Clayton followed Rusty’s gaze. In the center of the makeshift ring—a twenty-by-twenty square of interlocking foam mats held together by duct tape—stood Trent Larson. Trent was twenty-four, aggressively tanned, and smelled violently of aerosol body spray. He wore black board shorts and tightly wrapped hand tape. He was bouncing on his toes, throwing lightning-fast jabs at the empty air. A sharp snap-snap echoed as his punches broke the stagnant atmosphere.
Trent ran a martial arts gym two towns over. He had three amateur MMA belts, a tribal tattoo wrapping around his bicep, and the kind of loud, unearned confidence that made Clayton’s stomach physically churn. It wasn't fear that Clayton felt; it was a bone-deep exhaustion. Fifty bucks at the door didn’t buy much anymore, but in this town, it bought a front-row seat to a man’s humiliation.
“Three minutes!” Trent shouted to the crowd, his voice cracking slightly with adrenaline. “Anyone last three minutes, you walk away with five hundred cash. No gloves. Submission or knockout.”
Trent wasn’t fighting for the money. He was fighting for the dopamine hit of watching someone lesser fold under his hands. Clayton watched him throw a spinning hook kick. It was technically perfect, beautiful even. The crowd of mechanics and mill workers collectively ooh’d.
Clayton stared at Trent’s feet. They were clean, uncalloused—the feet of a man who fought on padded mats under bright fluorescent lights with a referee standing by to make sure nobody actually died.
“Five hundred,” Clayton muttered, staring into his club soda.
“Don’t do it, James,” Rusty warned, his tone dropping the jovial bartender act. “That kid’s broken two jaws this month. He’s fast, and he likes hurting people.”
Clayton closed his eyes. The headache at the base of his skull throbbed. He hated violence. He had spent his twenties drowning in it. As a SEAL officer, he hadn’t just committed violence—he had orchestrated it. He had sent boys younger than Trent into mud-brick compounds where the air smelled of cordite and voided bowels. He had spent the last eight years trying to scrub that cold, calculating part of his brain out with manual labor and silence.
But the tractor needed an alternator.
Clayton set the glass down. It made a dull, heavy thud on the wood. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the tight coiled muscles there. He didn’t feel heroic. He felt deeply, profoundly tired.