A Black Belt Champion Picked a Quiet Man for a Fight to Amuse the Crowd — He Smiled: “Are You Sure?”
Chapter 2
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He wasn't cheering. He wasn't glaring. He was just watching, his expression entirely neutral, like a man observing traffic.Derek's predatory grin widened. It was too perfect."You!" Derek shouted, pointing a red-gloved finger directly at Thomas.The crowd parted instinctively, creating a clear line of sight between the apex predator on the mat and the unassuming accountant by the pillar."Yeah, you! The guy with the coffee and the cardigan! You look like you've got some hidden tiger in you!"Thomas blinked behind his glasses. He looked left, then right, as if checking to see if Derek was addressing someone standing behind him. "Me?" he asked, his voice barely carrying over the ambient noise of the expo."Yes, you, Mr. Rogers!" Derek mocked, pacing the mat edge.The crowd chuckled."What's your name, my man?""Thomas," he replied mildly."Thomas! Let's give it up for Thomas, everybody!" Derek hyped the crowd, clapping his gloves together. A smattering of sarcastic applause rippled through the onlookers. "Listen, Thomas, you look a little stiff. You look like you just spent six hours doing taxes. Why don't you come step onto the mat, move around a bit? Two minutes. Just light sparring. You survive, you get a hundred bucks to buy yourself a whole new wardrobe."Thomas offered a polite, almost apologetic smile and shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm just waiting for my nephew to finish his jiu-jitsu seminar in the next hall. I'll just watch."Derek wasn't used to hearing the word no, especially not when he had an audience. His ego bristled. He walked closer to the edge of the mat, leaning over the boundary rope. "Come on, man. Don't be a buzzkill. It's for the fans. It's for charity."He wasn't actually giving anything to charity, but the word always worked."Look at these people. They want to see what you've got.""I really don't have anything you'd want to see," Thomas said softly. He took a sip of his coffee.The calm indifference infuriated Derek more than a shouted insult would have. The young champion looked at the crowd and dramatically threw his hands up. "Are we going to let him chicken out, Chicago?"The crowd, fueled by the mob mentality of a sporting event, took the bait."Get up there! Get up there!"A few frat boys in the front row started chanting. Within seconds, 50 people were clapping in rhythm, demanding blood.Thomas sighed. It was a long, tired sigh—the kind a parent makes when a child spills milk for the third time in an afternoon. He looked at his watch; his nephew wasn't done for another 20 minutes. He looked at the chanting crowd, then at Derek, who was striking a martial arts pose, soaking in the limelight."Look, son," Thomas said, stepping forward slightly, his voice cutting through the noise with a strange, resonant clarity. "I really don't think this is a good idea for either of us."