Chapter 2 - Stay Small
Trent’s first punch told me almost everything.
Powerful.
Fast.
Angry.
Wasteful.
He expected me to retreat from the overhand right.
Instead, I lowered my chin.
His taped fist struck my forehead.
Pain flashed white behind my eyes.
Trent recoiled, shaking his hand.
The tavern roared.
Then the old voice returned.
Stay small.
Watch his hips.
Let him believe he has already won.
I hated that voice.
It belonged to another life.
Trent jabbed my nose.
A kick slammed into my thigh.
My leg buckled.
“Come on, dirt boy.”
People laughed.
I heard money changing hands.
Nobody had bet on me.
Good.
Trent bounced twice, glanced toward the livestreaming phone, then launched a high kick.
His hips rotated first.
I saw it.
I stepped toward him.
His shin struck my ribs without full extension.
I caught his balance at the exact instant his supporting foot shifted.
Both hands against his chest.
One controlled push.
Trent hit the mat.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Even the jukebox suddenly sounded too loud.
Trent scrambled upright.
“That was a slip.”
Nobody answered.
His face darkened.
He looked toward the phone filming him.
That phone mattered more than I did.
I understood men like Trent.
Humiliation was not pain to them.
It was debt.
And someone always had to pay.
“Stop the clock.”
Rusty frowned.
“What?”
“Forget three minutes.”
“That isn’t the deal.”
Trent shoved Rusty aside.
“He stays until I finish him.”
The mood changed.
Some spectators lowered their phones.
I wiped blood from my mouth.
“Three minutes was the agreement.”
Trent stepped close.
“You embarrassed me in front of my students.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
His jaw tightened.
I should have left.
I should have taken my boots and driven home.
But then he whispered:
“I’m going to make you crawl out of here.”
Something inside me became frighteningly quiet.
Then the chain beneath my shirt slipped loose.
Metal struck the blue mat.
A silver coin spun beneath the hanging light.
Eagle.
Anchor.
Trident.
The gray-haired man beside the jukebox stood immediately.
Rusty bent down and picked it up.
Trent laughed.
“What’s that supposed to be? A lucky coin?”
The older man stepped closer.
“No.”
Everyone looked at him.
His eyes remained fixed on me.
“That’s a warning.”
Rusty turned the coin.
Then he found the engraving along its edge.
His face changed.
“Clayton…”
He looked at me as if we had never met.
“What the hell is this?”
I held out my hand.
“Give it back.”
But the veteran had already seen the name.
May you like
And unlike everyone else in that tavern—
he knew exactly who Clayton Hale had once been.
