Rusty chopped his hand down. Trent closed the distance instantly. He didn’t respect Clayton, which meant he didn’t bother with a feeler jab. He threw a heavy looping overhand right, aiming to end it in three seconds.

Clayton didn’t slip with the graceful fluidity of a boxer. He simply hunched his shoulders and tucked his chin, a brutal, pragmatic movement. Trent’s fist crashed into Clayton’s forehead, the thickest, hardest bone in the human skull. A sickening crack echoed.

Trent winced, stumbling back a half step, shaking his right hand. He had aimed for the jaw and hit solid bone. Clayton 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 3eight 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 dusty streets of Al Anbar.

“”Let him work. Watch his hips.”” Trent, angered by his own mistake, unleashed a flurry. A jab snapped Clayton’s head back. A vicious low kick slammed into Clayton’s left thigh.

The sound of flesh on flesh, a wet, heavy thwack, made a woman in the front row gasp.

Clayton stumbled, his leg buckling slightly. “Come on, dirt boy.” Trent spat, smelling blood. He threw a high roundhouse kick, aiming for Clayton’s temple.

Clayton’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 Clayton’s ribs wrapping around his back. With Trent balanced on one leg, his momentum compromised, Clayton just leaned his weight forward and shoved. 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 farmer had just dumped him on his back. Clayton stood exactly where he had been.