Trent stopped his shadowboxing. He dropped his hands to his hips, a smirk cutting across his face. He looked Clayton up and down, the muddy boots, the oil-stained shirt, the slight stoop in his posture. “You lost, old man.” Trent asked.
The crowd snickered. “I heard $500.” Clayton said. His voice barely carried over the whir of the industrial fans. He didn’t look Trent in the eye.
He looked at the duct tape holding the blue mats together. It was peeling at the corners. “You got a death wish, farmer.” Trent laughed, stepping closer. He invaded Clayton’s personal space, trying to force eye contact.
Up close, Trent smelled like spearmint gum and raw adrenaline. His pupils were blown wide. “”I hit hard. I’m not going to go easy on you just because you got dirt on your jeans.”” Clayton slowly reached down and untied his work boots.
He pulled them off, placing them neatly outside the ring. He peeled off his thick wool socks next. His bare feet stepped onto the mats. They were pale, scarred with thick calluses built up from years of walking on uneven furrows.
“Just ring the bell, Trent.” Clayton said mildly. Rusty walked to the edge of the mat holding a thick wad of bills. He looked at Clayton with genuine pity. “”All right.
