“Hold my drink, Rusty.”
The crowd parted as Clayton made his way to the edge of the mats. He didn't stride with purpose; he trudged, heavy-footed and slow, like a man walking to a time clock at the end of a double shift. He unlaced his steel-toed boots, stepping onto the foam in thick gray wool socks.
Trent Larson stopped bouncing. He looked at Clayton, taking in the grease-stained shirt and the tired slump of the farmer's shoulders. A cruel, victorious smile spread across the younger man's face. Trent thought he was purchasing an easy knockout—a local farmer, a heavy bag with a pulse.
"You sure, old man?" Trent mocked, loud enough for the front row to hear. "I don't want to pay your dental bills."
Clayton didn't answer. He just looked at Trent.
For a fraction of a second, Trent's smile faltered. He finally noticed the farmer’s eyes. They weren't wide with adrenaline or narrowed in anger. They were calm, entirely empty, like deep water over jagged rocks. There was no ego in them, only grim utility.
Rusty stepped to the edge of the mat, holding up a stopwatch. "Three minutes. You tap, you drop, or you sleep, it's over. Go."
Trent exploded forward. He feinted a jab and threw a vicious low kick aimed at Clayton's thigh, intending to chop the farmer down like a tree.