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

by Christopher Harlan

  He smiles. “All the time. You know how it is. Sit.”

  I sit down in a comfy chair and take a deep breath. I don’t know why, but now that we’re done with the chit chat I’m getting a little nervous. Scott picks up on it right away.

  “Look, I was nervous my first time too. I’m not going to bite your head off, man, don’t worry. We’re here to help you, not to freak you out.”

  I laugh. “Was it that obvious?”

  “To me. But I do this for a living, remember? If I couldn’t recognize a little anxiety, I wouldn’t be very good at my job.”

  “True. And your first time what?”

  “Going to therapy.”

  “You went also?”

  “When I was still training and fighting, yeah. I was having some issues with self-sabotage.”

  Fuck. I guess it’s not just me then. “I can relate.”

  “I was skeptical as well. It was my striking coach who suggested it because he saw me losing matches that I should have won, hands down. He saw that I wasn’t the same guy when I competed as I was in the gym, so, after reading a bunch of self-help books and seeing a few people, I finally found a guy who made a difference.”

  “That’s awesome, man. What happened then?”

  “I won my next three matches—all by submission.”

  “Nice. And then what? You fought for a title or something?”

  “Nope. I took off my gloves and retired.”

  I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. “Wait, you did what now?”

  “I retired. In the cage, actually. Right after I won my last fight.”

  “You retired on a three-fight win streak?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I realized something that it takes most fighters an entire career to learn.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “That even though I was a good fighter—and probably could have been a great one—maybe even a champion, I knew that I had a higher calling.”

  “Psychology?”

  “That’s right. When the guy I saw helped me, it was like magic—better than any technique or pep talk my coaches could have given me. I realized that I could fight another few years, but that was it. The window to a career as a pro athlete is short, so I made a choice. I would spend those last years getting a degree instead of fighting, and I’d go on to a second phase of my life—one where I could pay it back and help other athletes the way my doctor helped me. That’s my story.”

  I don’t know what to say. That’s an incredible story, even though I still can’t imagine the idea of ditching a career when you’re winning. “That’s. . . that’s a unique perspective, Scott. I’ve never heard of a fighter doing anything like what you’ve done.”

  “And I get it. I was a fighter. I still am on the inside. But, I also had to step back and realize that fighting isn’t everything, and, even if you make it everything, it still doesn’t last very long. A bad injury. A losing streak. Anything can end your career, and if you aren’t prepared for what comes next, then what? I chose to leave on my own terms, and I’ve never regretted it.”

  “That’s admirable. But you’ve gotta miss it. I know you do.”

  “I only miss it in two circumstances—when I watch a fight and when I counsel a fighter. Other than that, I don’t really think about it much. I’m busy.”

  “But it’s got to help—the whole ex-fighter-turned-psychologist thing. Your clie. . . I mean your patients must be more willing to open up to you since you’ve been there yourself.”

  “It definitely doesn’t hurt. But enough about me and my story. I want to hear yours. What brings you here? What’s causing the issues that you’re having?”

  I wish I knew, Doc. I wish I knew.

  15

  Harper

  I don’t know why I have anxiety about Damien’s appointment, but my heart is racing faster than it should be considering I’m sipping a latte and typing on my laptop. I guess the caffeine coursing its way through my veins isn’t helping the situation, but it’s not just that. I really want him to get the help he needs. I need at least one male fighter in my life to get his shit together.

  I’m trying to finish up my exposé on Damien, and, the more I write about him, the more intrigued I am by him. That’s a strange thing to think—not the only strange thought in there, trust me, but the more predominant one at the moment. Going back through my notes on his childhood and the terrible shit he had to go through is making me emotional all over again. But more than that, it makes me respect what he’s been able to make of himself, and how much he’s managed to make something of his life.

  Oh, and I can’t stop staring at the pic I took of him to include in the article. That doesn’t hurt either.

  Just as I catch myself ogling over his pic, and doing a fantastic job of not typing anything, I get a text. I forgot that I left the sound on, and the ringing jolts me out of my increasingly inappropriate thoughts and brings me right back into anxious mode. I open up my screen while the same thought keeps racing through my mind—please tell me it went well, please tell me it went well, please. . .

  Damien: It went really well. The guy’s cool as hell. Ex fighter.

  Yes! I’m excited, but decide to play it cool and collected.

  Me: That’s great. I want to hear all about it.

  Damien: Dinner. I’m cooking. Eight?

  My anxiety is gone, and the idea of him cooking for me brings my lady boner right back.

  Me: See you then. I’m writing about you, you know?

  Damien: Make sure you get a line in there about how sexy you think I am.

  Me: That’s my opening line, duh! Was toying with the idea of making it the title of the article, but that might show my bias.

  Damien: Nah, fuck it. Do it.

  Me: I’ll keep your advice in mind. See you at eight. What are we having?

  Damien: It’s a secret

  I like secrets. Especially ones that involve my sexy fighter cooking for me. Those are the best kinds of secrets.

  16

  Harper

  I decided to look good tonight.

  Not that I don’t always look good, don’t get me wrong. But I wanted to look good for him. He’s been through some shit, and not only is he trying to make himself better, but he’s going out of his way to cook me a meal. I can smell that meal before I walk in the door, by the way, and it smells amazing.

  I ring the bell and he answers his door shirtless.

  Lady boner number two? Check.

  I’ve seen him shirtless before, a million times, but I was always expecting it those times. There’s something about being taken completely by surprise that makes the contours of his chest even sexier than they already are.

  “Why hello.”

  “Hey there.”

  I want to skip dinner like we did the last time. But I’m also super hungry now that I’m not all anxious and full of caffeine.

  “Come in.”

  I stare at his back when he turns around. You know a guy is in ridiculous shape when his back is nearly as muscular as his front. His tattoos are everywhere—black and grey and gorgeous, and I feel like I’m in a dream right now.

  “So, are you just going to keep me in suspense the whole time? What is Chef Reyes making?”

  “I owed you a meal. A good one. Now, I’m no chef. . .”

  “Wait,” I say interrupting him. “You’re not a chef? I don’t appreciate being lied to Damien.”

  “If you keep going down that road, Captain Sarcastic, you’re not going to get to reap the tremendous benefits of my long and repeated YouTube viewings.”

  “Viewings of?”

  “Of what you said you wanted.”

  I take another deep breath. If I could eat through my nose, I’d be doing it right now, and now I know what he’s making me. “You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what? Make you the best eggplant parm ever? I just might have.”

  I’m loving him so h
ard right now. He knows that’s my favorite food in the whole world, and that I wanted to try it at La Cucina. If the one he made tastes half as good as it smells then I’m in for something really special.

  “It smells so good. I didn’t know that you cooked.”

  “That makes two of us. I think at this point cooking is just a matter of following the directions of the guy on YouTube.”

  “You watched a YouTube video on how to make eggplant parm?”

  “Replace ‘a’ with ‘twenty’ and you have it right. I took notes.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “You did what now?”

  “Look.” He goes into a kitchen drawer and pulls out a little pad. “Look for yourself. I’m a good student.”

  He’s not kidding. He has legit notes all over. Oven temperature, how to prep the eggplants, how to. . . “Wait, you made your own sauce?”

  “Of course I did. You think I was going to watch all these videos to make eggplant parm then serve my girl that jar shit? No way.”

  I feel really special. He has a fight coming up, he’s dealing with all sorts of personal stuff, yet he still finds time to cook me my all-time favorite meal. “I can’t wait to eat it.”

  “Let’s save that sentiment until after you taste it. I know it’s eggplant parm—but what it tastes like is another thing. We’ll see.”

  “Well I don’t care what it tastes like. I mean, I really don’t want to eat it if it’s gross, don’t get me wrong, but I’m sure it’s great.”

  He laughs. He knows I’m kidding, that I’d eat it no matter what, but it has to taste good if it smells that good.

  “If it sucks, Gino’s Pizza is only a phone call away. Deal?”

  “Deal.” He pours me a glass of red wine. It hits the spot. “So tell me how it went while the pasta cooks.”

  “I was supposed to make pasta too!” he yells, followed by a big smile. “Just kidding, the water’s heating up so we have a few. Come.” We go sit on his couch with our glasses, me with my wine and him with his water. I don’t want to push him to talk about anything he’s not comfortable talking about, but I want to know how everything went. Luckily for me, he starts the conversation. “Scott’s awesome. Love the guy.”

  “And Scott would be?”

  “Oh, sorry, Dr. Benton. My sports psychologist.”

  “And you call him Scott?”

  “His rules, not mine. I was all for calling him doctor, but he insisted. I think it’s a thing he does to make people comfortable. It worked, too, ‘cause as soon as it was Damien and Scott, rather than Mr. Reyes and Dr. Benton, all the walls came down. He’s really easy to talk to.”

  I seriously couldn’t be happier with what I’m hearing. “That’s so amazing. I was worried.”

  “So was I. I went because Lucas and you said I should, plus I was skeptical right up until I met the guy. But I was wrong on every level. The session went really well. I already have homework.”

  Wine almost comes spilling out of my nose. “Homework? Really?”

  “That’s just what I’m calling it. Basically, things to work on before my next session.”

  “Next session?” I ask. “So you are going to see him again?”

  “Hell yeah. As much as I can before my fight.”

  “Are you still sure that you’ll be ready for the fight with Antonio? Not physically. I know you’ll be ready physically.”

  “Mentally you mean? Am I going to freak out in the cage?” I nod. “I hope not. I can’t tell when it’s about to happen, it just kind of happens. Even when I went down while training with Lucas, I felt fine right before it happened. It’s unpredictable. But I’m hoping that Scott can give me some techniques to fight it all off.”

  “Hopefully. ‘Cause if your head is right, there’s no way Antonio beats you. I did some research on him. He’s good, no doubt, but not on your level. You can get through him if you just watch for his submission. He has a crazy guillotine, but that’s about it. As long as you can defend against that, you’re good.”

  He reaches over and takes my hand. “You scouting my opponents? If Matt ever decides to give up coaching, I’ll hire you.”

  “I have to warn you, I don’t come cheap.”

  “How about I just pay you in fancy home cooked Italian dinners?”

  “Deal. I hear the water boiling, by the way.”

  “Oh shit, you’re right. Hold on.”

  He jumps up and opens up a box of pasta and throws it into the water. “You mean you didn’t have time to make and dry your own pasta? How dare you, dinner is ruined.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want me making my own pasta. The quality of my sauce is still up in the air. According to the package, it should be done in around twelve minutes—then I just have to bake everything together.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m not in any rush.”

  “Me either. I love spending time with you. Even if my cooking sucks.”

  “Would you stop it, it’s going to be great. Everything—and I mean everything—is going to work out, Damien. I just need you to believe that.”

  “It’s hard. Things haven’t been going so great for a while.”

  “Are you really going to make me quote ‘The Dark Knight’ right now? Okay, fine, I’ll be pre-Two Face Harvey Dent. ‘The night is darkest before the dawn.’ Things are looking up.” I walk into the kitchen where he’s still fiddling around and put my lips on his—softly at first, and then harder, sliding my tongue just on the inside of his lips. His hands go to my waist and he pulls me in. That’s when I feel him pressing against me.

  “See,” I say, looking down. “Everything’s looking up, isn’t it?”

  17

  Damien

  Several Weeks Later

  My fight is the day after tomorrow.

  Training camp—which most fighters usually hate—has been the best thing for me. Not only am I seeing Scott twice a week now, I’m also seeing Harper as much as I can. Between those two things, and the daily wars I’m putting my body through, my mind is right back where it needs to be.

  I’ve felt like an assassin these past few weeks. I’ve been laying waste to all of my sparring partners, including Lucas—even though he claims he’s letting me get the better of him so I can build confidence for my fight. I call bullshit on that one, but I’ll let him keep his UFC ego for now. He knows the truth.

  I appreciate all the help I’ve been given, and now it’s time to get savage.

  My fight with Antonio is two days away, and right now training is about letting my body recover and tightening up my reflexes. Matt’s the best pad man in the world, I swear.

  As I work on my combinations, I hear his voice from behind the pads. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel good. No issues.”

  “Nothing in sparring? We had a deal, remember? If you felt any anxiety coming on. . .”

  “I haven’t,” I tell him. “Nothing like that day I collapsed. Not even close. Actually, now that I think about it, I’ve been anxiety free for a few weeks now.”

  “Those therapy sessions must be doing a lot for you.”

  “They are. I never thought I’d be the guy saying that out loud, but they really help. Scott’s awesome. I had that psychology stuff all wrong—I thought therapy was going to be a lot of talking about Mom and Dad and all sorts of bullshit, and there was some of that—but really it was about giving me techniques when I’m in trouble or doubting myself—just like fighting.”

  “Wow,” Matt says. “That sounds like something everyone in the gym should be doing.”

  “It is. I’m telling you. The shit works. I was the biggest doubter, but every time I felt something come on, I’d just use some of Scott’s techniques and it would really help.”

  “That’s great. I’m really proud of you—a lesser man would have given up.”

  “I don’t give up, Matt. Never have. Never will.”

  “I know, kid. That’s why I love you. Now, get that right cross less telegrap
hed, I can see it from a mile away. And if I can see it, you know Antonio will also.”

  Antonio.

  The kid started out as some random name that I needed to get through to get my shot at Johnny. I’d honestly never even heard of him before, but, as the fight got closer, I watched some of his fights on YouTube. The guy’s no joke, and I’m going to have my hands full with him.

  But I’ll be ready. I’m always ready. I just want to get to that bastard, Johnny.

  “Better,” Matt says as I adjust my technique. “Let’s run that again. Five more times until you have it down.”

  “Got it.”

  We finish our training session and my body feels great.

  “And. . . time. Good work today.”

  “Thanks. It felt good.”

  “What’s on your agenda for the rest of the day?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “Probably go home. Meditate a little. Watch some. . .”

  I stop because Matt is pointing behind me and smiling. I turn around to see what he’s looking at. “Oh.” My eyes nearly bug out of my head. “Maybe I won’t be going home just yet.” It’s Harper. She’s standing at the door of the gym in a pink Jiu Jitsu gi. “Wow.” I walk over and look her up and down. “I’ve never been so turned on by a gi before.”

  “That’s ‘cause I wasn’t wearing it. Now put your tongue back in your mouth.”

  “I can’t. I just keep thinking about what you’re wearing under the gi.”

  She grabs me by the collar and pulls me down. She leans into me, putting her mouth right by my ear. “Well maybe I’ll wear it for you again at home.”

  There are good and bad looks at a gym—especially for a guy like me who’s one of the higher-level competitors, and having a giant boner in the middle of the practice room is definitely the king of bad looks. It’s hard though—literally.

  “Don’t take this question the wrong way, but what are you doing?”