A Savage Redemption (A Series of Savage Gentleman Book 3)

by Christopher Harlan

  “Right, sorry. Let’s cross here.”

  “So, Harper called the gym, half panicked and half angry, looking for either me or Matt. Lucky for her, I’d just finished class and I answered. Unfortunate for you, Matt had picked up his office line, unbeknownst to me, and heard the whole discussion. And here we are, the next morning, fresh from the slammer to get some shitty coffee.”

  “Dunkin is not shitty, watch your mouth.”

  “Fuck, that dude must have hit you in the head, huh? Your judgment’s all fucked up.”

  “Ha ha.”

  We get inside, order our non-shitty coffee, and sit down at a table.

  “What’s going on with you man? It’s not like you to get into some scrap, at a bar of all places. Especially after that weirdness we had in the ring during sparring. I asked Harper what was wrong but she wouldn’t say—said to talk to you. That’s a good woman you have there, you realize that?”

  He’s right about that. She’s one of a kind. “I know. She’s ride or die. I think I’ll keep her.”

  “Just make sure you don’t push her away with this kind of shit. What gotten into you, man? This isn’t like you at all.”

  I take a gulp of my coffee. Not a sip, not a slurp, a big fucking gulp. I’m going to need every ounce of energy this styrofoam cup can offer me right now. I swallow, take a deep breath, and tell Lucas everything. The attack. The anxiety. The panic attacks. The fear. All of it. When I’m done, surprisingly, I feel lighter.

  “Shit, man, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t even want to acknowledge it myself, let alone admit it other people. Thought it made me weak, like something is wrong with me. I’ve taken way worse beatings in the ring over my time, I don’t understand why something like getting jumped would send me into a tailspin like this. I was literally afraid when you threw that punch that connected.”

  “Of course you were,” he jokes. “I’m a beast. Can’t fault you for that one.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes at him. “Seriously, I just panicked and thought about turtling up so that I didn’t get hurt. It was the worst feeling in the world—especially in that setting. I can’t fight if I’m like this, man. That was just a light spar session with my best friend—imagine how my brain might react when I have a killer across from me in the cage who’s trying to put me away. I can’t go out like that. What am I going to do?”

  I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed. I feel weak saying all this to Lucas, but I can’t lie about it any more. There’s no way to hide something like that.

  “Open your phone,” he instructs.

  I take my hands away from my face and raise an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  “You asked a question, and I’m going to give you an answer. Now, open your phone.”

  “Yes, sir.” I have no idea where this is going, but I trust Lucas like a brother, so I take out my phone and unlock it. “Opened.”

  “Here.”

  I hear the airdrop sound and see that it’s a contact. I don’t recognize the name.

  “Who’s Scott Benton?”

  “An old friend. The best sports psychologist in the game.”

  Oh geez, not another person suggesting this to me. “A shrink? Really?”

  “Not a shrink, dude, a sports psychologist. He’s one of us, actually.”

  “A fighter?”

  “Ex-fighter, but yeah, he was a fighter alright. A damn good one.”

  “So why’d he leave the game?”

  “Scott is. . . complicated.”

  “Complicated?” I repeat. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”’

  “It means he’s kind of a character. Interesting guy.”

  “That sounds like a euphemism for ‘nuts’.”

  “Ha. It isn’t. Although he was a straight killer when he fought. But, as a psychologist, he’s top of the food chain. Lots of guys see him.”

  This is news to me. I’ve never heard of guys seeing a sports psychologist before. “Lots of fighters see him? Like who?”

  “I’m not going to start dropping names, but, trust me, there are a lot of fighters who seek out his help. And not just fighters either, professional athletes, in all different fields.”

  “That’s a little surprising to me.”

  “It shouldn’t be. That’s why the job exists—because athletics is stressful and our minds get in the way of our bodies all the time.”

  “I guess, but. . .”

  “Alright, you’re still skeptical. You asked for a name, I’ll give you one—Lucas Esparza.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You?” I ask. “You went to see a sports psychologist?”

  “In between my title win and my UFC debut, yeah. And Scott worked wonders.”

  “Why did you go to him?”

  “Because I was experiencing what we all experience—self doubt, bad nerves, even motivation issues because I’ve been doing this for so long. He helped me.”

  I snicker. “So, what, you lied down on a table and started talking about all your feelings? How does that work?”

  “No, idiot, I didn’t go back in time and visit Sigmund Freud in the early 1900’s. That’s not what a sports psychologist does.”

  “Alright,” I say, smiling. “I’m obviously ignorant. Enlighten me.”

  “I can only tell you my experience, obviously. Everyone is different. But I was doubting myself, big time.”

  I’m a little shocked to hear that. “You? The Ghost?”

  “Yeah, The Ghost. I’m just a person, man, we all are—even the opponents we think are killer robots. They’re not, they’re just men. So, when I went, I just told him how I was feeling—no couch required, I sat in a chair—and he gave me some techniques, just like a coach would.”

  “Techniques?”

  “Yeah, like thinking and breathing techniques mostly. When I started to feel that doubt creep in, or when I started to get nervous, I’d practice a breathing activity, or self talk, or even visualization. I did a lot of positive visualization during training camp—imagining myself winning, getting my hand raised, giving an in-cage interview with Joe Rogan—everything that ended up eventually happening.”

  The more Lucas talks, the less crazy the sports psychologist thing sounds. I really had this picture in my head of a guy sitting next to me as a lied on a couch talking about my childhood or something. I guess that isn’t what it is. Maybe I need to give Scott a call.

  “Alright, you sold me. I’ll give the guy a call.”

  “Glad to hear that. Here’s to your good decision making.” He holds up his styrofoam cup and I just stare at him.

  “Are you trying to toast with our coffee?”

  “Is that dumb?”

  “A little. Let’s just take a drink. We’ll imagine we’re clinking white mugs in the air.”

  “See. That’s why I brought you. Much better idea. Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  Step one down.

  Now, I just have to deal with Matt and Harper.

  9

  Harper

  I don’t know why I got so scared.

  It’s weird. I’ve been around fighting since I can remember. I can’t even tell you how many fights I’ve seen. I’ve witnessed viscous knockouts, men choking each other, and every other sort of violence that you can imagine one man doing to another inside of a cage. Even after seeing all that, it’s a different and scary thing to see someone get their ass kicked in a street fight.

  Maybe ‘fight’ is a little bit of a misnomer. That wasn’t a fight. That was a one-sided ass kicking that I thought was going to end much worse than it did. Like I said, it was scary to see—but once I got past the fear, and Damien got arrested, I was scared for a different reason. That whole thing felt a little too familiar. I don’t know what’s going on with Damien, but I’m not going to be with a man who has no self-control—especially one who’s a trained killer like Damien. He has some explaining to do.

  But I�
�m willing to listen. He’s earned at least that from me. It’s mid afternoon the next day when I get the apology text.

  Damien: I’m so fucking sorry. Can I see you tonight?

  Being the forgiving girlfriend that I am. . .

  Me: Of course. I’ll come to your place later. Hope you didn’t drop the soap.

  I can’t help but be sarcastic—it’s a sickness. He writes back:

  Damien: Trust me there was no soap, otherwise that place wouldn’t have smelled like hot garbage.

  Me: You make prison sound so sexy.

  Damien: Jail. I wasn’t in prison. I didn’t kill the guy.

  Me: There’s a difference?

  Damien: I’ll tell you all about it later. In the meantime, forget my place. I owe you more than takeout. Let me take you to that fancy place you keep asking me to go to.

  I’m confused.

  Me: I never asked you to go to any fancy place.

  Damien: You did. La Cucina. You’ve mentioned it a few times.

  Me: But I never asked you to go.

  Damien: Not directly. You told me, without telling me, by telling me how much you wanted to go every single time we pass the place.

  Good boy, I didn’t think you were listening.

  Me: I mean, I’m not going to say no if you want to take me there.

  Damien: Good, ‘cause I already made eight o’clock reservations. Wear something sexy.

  Me: Don’t I always :-)

  Damien: See you then.

  Man, this day is starting to look up. I need to find something to wear!

  10

  Damien

  I’m really happy that Harper agreed to see me tonight. I owe her an explanation. I owe her a lot more than that. She’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, and I can’t jeopardize that because I’m a little fucked up from my assault.

  It’s time to man up and deal with the problem. But before I get to see her tonight, my apology tour has one other stop.

  Usually, seeing the awning of my gym fills me with energy. Not today. Today that normal excitement is replaced by a weird type of anxiety. I feel like a kid who got in trouble at school who’s waiting for his dad to come home and beat his ass. It’s kind of weird being scared of your trainer—especially when you fight people for a living, but Matt is like a father to me, and he can be intimidating when he’s mad.

  When I walk in, he’s training one of our up and comers. Matt’s back is to me as he holds pads next to the cage. My first impulse is to turn and run, but there’s no running now. I need to face this whole thing like a man—with my girlfriend and trainer both, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  I hang back for a minute. After Matt calls time on the pad work, I walk over. My heart is racing. “Matt.”

  He turns around and looks at me—hard at first, and then his expression immediately softens. “Are you alright?” he asks.

  It’s not the reaction I’m expecting at all. “What?”

  “Come to my office.”

  First, I get paranoid and think he wants to take me out of everyone’s sight so he can beat my ass. I have the situation totally misread because that’s not what happens at all. He tells me to sit. And instead of sitting across the desk from me like he always does, he sits in the chair next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t bullshit me, kid. Something’s wrong.”

  I really can’t believe how this is going. I expected frothing at the mouth yelling, with things maybe getting physical. I expected a lecture about how I’m not going to be another cliché—or how he’s not going to train me if I’m going to self-sabotage. That’s not what I’m getting at all. I’m getting soft eyes, a firm touch, and nothing but kindness coming from his mouth.

  “I’m. . . I’m not myself. What happened took it out of me.”

  “I figured. I knew this might happen.”

  “How?”

  “You got assaulted, Damien. Blindsided. Got beat up like you never have in the ring. That’s bound to fuck with you, both mentally and physically.”

  What’s freaking me out the most isn’t that he’s being decent to me, it’s that he hasn’t mentioned my arrest yet. I know he knows, and I’ve been waiting for him to ream me out over it. But shit—if he’s not going to bring it up I’m definitely not going to.

  “Yeah. It got to me. Big time. Even I didn’t realize it.”

  “Sometimes the damage takes time.” He shifts his grip from my shoulder to behind my neck. “I know about your little scuffle.”

  Little scuffle? I nearly beat the guy unconscious. “Yeah, about that. . .”

  “It is what it is,” he says, cutting me off. “No one died, and I’m guessing that moron who was stupid enough to mess with you isn’t going to press charges.”

  Charges? Jesus, I didn’t even think of that. “I hope not.”

  “I’m sure. There’s no way. And, if you were the kind of fighter who got into bar fights all the time—and trust me, those guys exist—then we’d be having a very different conversation right now. But you’re not. I’m not worried about that, but I am worried about you.”

  I’m worried about me too, Matt. But there’s no time for me to feel sorry for myself right now. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it. I really do. I’m going to get better—I already talked to Lucas about it, I just need some time.”

  “Take your time. You want to cancel your fight?”

  “No,” I say emphatically. “Hell no. No more setbacks. I have to find a way to do both—get myself better and move forward in my career. I’ll make it work.” I don’t know how, but I’ll make it work.

  “Alright. But maybe take a few days off—get your mind right. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll get after it.”

  “Thanks, Matt. For everything.”

  “I’m not just your coach, Damien. We’re family.”

  “You know what else you are, right?”

  I see his face tense up for the first time. “Don’t say it.”

  “You’re also Master Splinter.”

  “Damnit. It’s time for you to leave before I smack you silly.”

  I jump up, a smile on my face for the first time in a while. “Yes, sir. I have to get ready anyhow.”

  “Ready?”

  “That’s right. Got myself a hot date with the girl of my dreams.”

  11

  Harper

  It’s eight fifteen and I’m just getting to the place now. Traffic was terrible, but, then again, it’s always terrible in the city. That’s just part of living here, along with the constant smell of car exhaust and street vendor food. But, once you get past all of the noise, there are some real gems in the city, though you have to find them for yourself.

  A good friend of mine came to La Cucina with her husband for their wedding anniversary last year and she hasn’t stopped talking about it since. I’m almost as excited to eat the food as I am to see Damien—it’s a close first and second, and I’m not sure which is which.

  “You follow instructions.”

  I hear Damien’s voice from behind me. It warms my whole body up. When I turn around, I almost can’t believe my eyes. He looks good. Damn good.

  “Wow,” I say. “You. . . um. . .”

  “What?”

  “You clean up nicely. Very nicely.”

  “Why thank you.”

  He really looks great. I’m used to seeing The Sinner more than I’m used to seeing Damien. The Sinner is his fighting alter-ego—usually in a Gi, rash guard or shirtless—I prefer shirtless, by the way. The Sinner is always training. Damien is a different person. He’s the one I like to lie in bed with, the one who’s standing in front of me right now looking like a damn model.

  I go to reach out my hand. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  The place is as beautiful as my friend described. It smells amazing, and the ambiance of the whole place just makes me feel like I’m on a real date. Like, if we ordered a bowl of pasta an
d each grabbed onto an end of the same piece of spaghetti I wouldn’t be surprised. Damien pulls out my chair like a gentleman. I like the guilty version of him, he’s really chivalrous. As soon as we sit down, he starts talking. He obviously has a lot on his mind.

  “So, first thing’s first. I owe you a huge apology for the other night. That isn’t me at all. It sounds ironic, but I don’t get into fights outside of my job. I definitely don’t beat up random dudes at bars. I’m sorry you had to see that side of me.”

  I reach over and take his hand. “Look, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to apologize. I mean, yeah, I was pissed at first, but, really, I was mad at you for jeopardizing your career over some bullshit. I really want the best for you, Damien. I don’t want you going down the path that so many other fighters go down—including in my own family. Moments like that can ruin everything you’ve worked for.”

  “I know. You’re right. It was just wrong place, wrong time. I won’t let anything like that happen again. But I have some news that’ll probably surprise you. That’s why I wanted to take you out.”

  “And here I thought you actually wanted to take me to a restaurant I wanted to go to.”

  “I did,” he says. “I always planned on bringing you here sometime, but I wanted to save it for something special—albeit this is a kind of a weird special.” I don’t know what he’s talking about, but he’s definitely got my attention. It’s too early for a proposal, but maybe. . .

  “I’m going to see a therapist tomorrow.”

  Sometimes I’m the epitome of inappropriate. I start laughing so hard when he says that, and, when I see the look on his face change from happiness to surprise, I immediately stop. “Oh no, I’m not laughing at that! Shit! That’s great, babe. I wasn’t laughing at you.”

  I feel like a complete asshole until I see a smile creep over his face also. “Nah, I deserved that. Between this place and my lead in, I totally set that up like I was about to get down on one knee but then I tell you I’m going to get my head shrunk. Shit, I’m sorry!” We both start laughing and make enough noise that we get some stares from the stuffy old couple sitting across from us. That, and the fact that Damien’s neck tattoos stick out above the collar of his shirt. One of the two. Probably both. I think they think we’re going to rob the place after our pasta.