He tossed one glove three feet up, caught it without effort, and grinned as he stopped right at the edge of my lawn.

“Real nice yard work, old man,” Trent said.

“Hi, Trent,” I said.

He stepped off the concrete, swung his arm, and dropped the four-ounce blue leather MMA gloves right over my property stake, landing them square on the new lilac roots.

The weight of the heavy leather pressed two of the young green shoots flat into the damp dirt.

“Whoops,” Trent said, rocking from toe to toe as he watched my shoulders.

“Landed over the line.”