Letters to The Fighter ✔

3. Derek

March 12th, 2014

Dear Peter,

I'm sorry for underestimating you from the moment I met you, to our very last day together. You were always a riddle to me, and I'm not sure when or how, but solving you  became my life's purpose. So let me begin with the day that my eyes first met yours. The day that I can never forget.

I'd been to concerts before with my parents and quite a few with Zoya. I was expecting that type of setup when I arrived at the arena.

It was nothing like what I thought it would be.

The first thing I noticed was that there were no lights. I stepped foot into a large arena in which several hushed voices were audible, but not a single face recognizable. It was a little scary at first, but then I remembered that I had my best friend next to me, and she'd always been fearless.

Soon enough, my eyes adjusted the slightest bit to the lack of light. Big men with rugged features were scattered throughout the arena, coupled with women who seemed just as strong. The other half were young―college kids, probably.

"I think our seats are this way!" Zoya shouted over the music that blared from every speaker in the room. I somehow heard her, following behind until I sat down in what I hoped was an empty seat.

A boxing match wasn't a place for people like the two of us, which only made it that much better. We waited until the darkness lifted and gave way to dim lights that grew brighter with the echoing voice of the announcer.

"Ladies and gentleman," he boomed, "welcome to the final boxing match of the year. On one side, we have three-hundred and fifty-two pound Derek Nickoles; and on the other, weighing at two-hundred and sixteen pounds: four-time Long Island champion, Peter Grayson!"

Derek was the first to find his way to the boxing ring and to say that he was huge was an understatement. The guy was a monster. Even though the match had not yet begun, sweat gleamed off of his overly-sculpted body, making it seem waxed rather than anything close to natural. He put his hands in the air, arousing the crowd, before ducking into the boxing ring. 

"He's so going to lose," Zoya whispered once the cheers died down.

My jaw dropped. 

"How can anyone get bigger or scarier than him?" 

It was hard to imagine Derek losing. He seemed untouchable; it seemed as if he was able to somehow silence his cowering enemy with just a look sent his way. 

"That doesn't really matter. David told me all about this Peter guy; he's apparently the son of some boxing legend." 

I didn't say anything, only nodded, scooting to the edge of my seat in anticipation of seeing Derek's opponent. 

Finally, from the opposite side of the arena, the outline of a figure emerged. It was hard to identify your features until you grew closer to the boxing ring, but one thing was for sure: you were considerably smaller than Derek. You ducked into the ring without a look at the crowd, which was, if possible, wilder than it had been when Derek made his entrance. This time around, the screaming of girls from the arena was more prominent.

"He's so hot," Zoya swooned in her seat. I shot her a look that was suppose to remind her that she was getting married soon, but she didn't seem to notice. Or she just didn't care.

My heart raced with what could only be described as fear for you. When you and Derek stood side by side, the difference was even more prominent and terrifying. You were a mere human in front of what seemed like a tank―a large killing machine set on autopilot. I didn't understand why people fought for the sake of entertainment. I didn't understand a lot of things, and it didn't help my case when an enigma like yourself walked into my life.

A referee stood in between you two, explaining what seemed to be rules that Derek listened intently to. While he was talking, you finally raised your head to look at the crowd. It was then that I could truly see your eyes. They held an impossible amount of drive, the kind I had never before witnessed, and they scanned the crowd, meeting mine for a split second before you refocused on the referee's rules.

Your hair was messy, almost falling in front of your eyes. A sharp jawline was supporting pursed lips, which moved every now and then, forming unfathomable and inaudible words. Your shoulders were tense, drawn back, and your stance statute.

Derek, on the other hand, could not stand still. He would jog in place, clench and open his fists, stretch his neck and shoulders. His stance was confident. He wasn't just challenging you; he was threatening you.

You remained calm. You were still, the only notable movements being the way your bare chest rose and fell with each steady breath, or the blink of your eyes every few seconds, or the occasional nod when the referee addressed you. 

I've witnessed bravery countless times, but this was a foreign type of feeling. I was a spectator, yet my heart raced with fear as if I had been the one standing in front of a brewing storm and not you.

 It was then that I felt something build up inside of me. It was not fear, nor was it excitement. It was something else, something in the likes of inspiration. A lone name escaped my lips without warning into the hot air, and dissolved in the echoes of shouts and screams surrounding us, drowning out my thoughts.

"Peter."

Dedicated to: @paradise_serenity because she's flipping fantastic and such an angel and I love you Trisha, thank you for everything. <3

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