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

by Christopher Harlan

  “Sorry,” he says. “For all that. Got bad news today.”

  “Bad news? What happened?”

  “Oh nothing,” he tells me. “Just got popped for steroids and my fight’s getting overturned. Nothing serious.”

  “Wait, what did you just say?”

  “Do I really have to say it all again?” He’s slurring his words, but I still understood what he said.

  “No, you don’t. But that can’t be right, you’re clean.”

  “Apparently not,” he says. “Tested positive for low levels of. . . what was it? Oh yeah, synthetic testosterone. Matt says if I can’t prove my innocence in the next two weeks then my fight becomes a no-contest and I become a juice head.”

  “Don’t even joke about that. How did this even happen? It has to be a mistake!”

  “That’s the two-million-dollar question, isn’t it? No fucking clue. No clue how I can prove any of it—so basically, my career is over.”

  “Hey, hey, don’t say that. Your career is not over. Talk to me.”

  “Nothing to talk about,” he says. “It’s over.”

  Now it’s all becoming clear to me. I don’t need an explanation as to why he disappeared for most of the day or why he’s trying to figure this out at the bottom of a bottle.

  “Come here.” I take off his smelly shirt and lay him down on my couch. While he’s lying there, I go to my linen closet and grab an extra blanket and pillow—those will definitely be getting dry-cleaned tomorrow! I put the pillow under his head and turn him on his side in case he throws up. I cover him with the blanket and get his shoes off.

  “Listen. We’ll work this out. Right now, you need to rest up. I promise we’ll figure it out in the morning okay.”

  “Alright,” he says, his eyes already closing. “I love you, you know that?”

  Holy shit. What did he just say? “Damien? What was that? Damien?” I shake him, but he’s out.

  I look down at him, my mind going in a thousand directions at once. I have so many thoughts right now, but one keeps coming to the forefront of my mind, and it has nothing to do with his career.

  I love you too, Damien Reyes. So much.

  23

  Damien

  After I slept off most of my stupor and somewhat sobered up, apologized more times than I can even remember, took a much-needed shower and brushed my teeth, I called Scott.

  I need to see him, and when I told him what was going on, he moved some things around so that I could come in. I sit down in his comfy chair, my head about ready to explode.

  “Here,” he says, reaching into his drawer and pulling out a bottle of Tylenol. “You look like you need these.”

  “How did you know? Wait, I didn’t drunk call you, did I?”

  He laughs. “I have several patients who get terrible migraines—I know what a headache expression looks like.”

  “Oh, I see.” Now I feel stupid.

  “Also, drunk dialing typically involves a girl you’re seeing—or who you want to be seeing, or sometimes one that you already saw but aren’t seeing anymore—but I’ve never heard of drunk dialing your therapist. Just so you know. Though if anything gets that bad, you’re welcome to drunk dial. It would be a first in my career.”

  That’s why I love this guy—he’s got an amazing sense of humor. “Fair enough. But we need to talk.”

  “Anxiety attack again?” he asks.

  “Yeah, you could say that. I definitely had an episode, but this time I know exactly why.”

  “So tell me what’s going on. I’m not supposed to say this, but you look like dog shit.”

  He’s not wrong. “I appreciate the honesty. Let me return the favor because I feel like you’ll understand why I went a little nuts last night.”

  “Alright. Hit me with it.”

  “I got popped for synthetic testosterone in my last fight and they want to overturn it to a no contest, putting my chance at the welterweight belt on indefinite hold and possibly ending my career. How’s that?”

  “Here’s another thing I’m no supposed to say, but holy shit, man.” He pauses before asking, “Did you take it?”

  “What?”

  “The juice. Did you take it?”

  I can’t believe everyone feels like they have to ask me that question. “No man. Of course not.”

  “Have to ask.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Yes. I really do. Knowing if you actually took the stuff would change the kind of advice I gave you.”

  “I didn’t. Never have, never will. I’m not a cheater.”

  “That’s good. That’s really good. But still, here you are, with a failed drug test. What do you think accounts for that?”

  I see where he’s going, but it’s not really why I came here. “Look, Scott, I can go over all of this with my manager. I was really coming here more for the psychological part of things.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to help with, Damien. All due respect, you have to let me do my job and go with the process here. I know I’m not your coach—I’m not trying to be. But I need to get at how and why you’re feeling what you are.”

  I feel stupid. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “No apologies necessary. You’re a fighter—if you didn’t push back a little I’d think you were a bad one.”

  I love Scott. If things don’t work out with Harper, I might give him a shot. “To answer your question though—I really have no idea how it happened. Trust me, it’s not for lack of thinking about it. Maybe ‘thinking’ is the wrong word. It’s more like I’ve been obsessing over it. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “And that’s what’s causing your anxiety, Damien. The unknown. The confusion.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, that as terrible as all the ancillary effects this test could have on your life and career are, I actually don’t think it’s those things causing you to panic. I think what’s causing you to panic is the fact that it just seems to be happening to you and you don’t understand why. It’s fear of the unknown—of not being able to figure out how something so terrible could have happened to you when you know that you didn’t do anything wrong—which is why I asked, by the way.”

  Interesting. I’d never really thought of it in that way, but it makes total sense—fear of the unknown. Not being able to figure this whole thing out is what’s causing distress. Makes complete sense. “Huh.”

  “Is that a good ‘huh’?”

  “I think it is, doc. I think it is. But even if I get a hold of how this could have happened, I still have legit stress over the other things.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I mean that if you can figure out the mistake that caused a false positive—and if you’re telling me the truth about not taking anything, then it is a mistake—then maybe you could prove it, and thus avoid all the bad things you think will happen. Just a thought.”

  Wow. “I swear, Scott, I need to rent your brain to think for me when I get into a crisis.”

  He laughs. “That would be a hell of a business if you could invent it. But since we’re probably about 100 years from that kind of technology, I’ll just be happy that I could help.”

  We spend about fifteen more minutes just talking—coming up with more strategies for when I’m feeling anxious. When we’re done, I feel better and Scott walks me to the door.

  “Hey,” he says just as I walk outside.

  “Yeah?”

  “This happened to another patient—UFC fighter—about a year ago. I just remembered.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask.

  “Funniest thing, it turned out to be tainted supplement.”

  My ears perk up. “A what?”

  “Tainted supplement. Most of those protein powders and all that stuff is made in other countries where they don’t clean the machines very well—my patient had to take six months to prove it but turns out there were trace amounts of steroids left over from anoth
er batch that made their way into the supplements he was taking for his fight. Once they traced it back to China, and proved it, he was cleared. Just a thought.”

  I said it once and I’ll say it again. I love Scott.

  24

  Damien

  Lunch with Lucas is something I need today.

  I need to see if he knows anything about tainted supplements. He’s meeting me at the diner. I came straight here from therapy just to clear my head, hoping that he was free and could join me.

  Before he gets here, I get a text from Harper. I’ve worried this poor girl to death over the last few weeks, but she’s stuck by me no matter what. I’m so lucky to have her in my life.

  Harper: How’d it go?

  Me: Good. Got some insight from Scott. Want to talk it over with Lucas first but I’ll tell you about it. Are we hanging out later?

  Harper: Do you even need to ask? Oh, I finished my piece on you for my blog.

  Me: Does it include me getting popped for steroids?

  Harper: Lol. Nope. Conveniently left that part out.

  Me: I thought you wanted to do some more interviews.

  Harper: I did, but honestly, I know enough and we’ve talked enough that it’s still really interesting, if I do say so myself. You want to read it?

  Me: Do you even need to ask?

  Harper: Okay, call me after.

  Me: Will do. Lucas is here.

  Harper: Tell him I said hi.

  I wave to Lucas when he walks in. “Holy shit,” he says, looking down at the plate of food I ordered. “Dude, we’ll figure this thing out and you’ll fight again—maybe go easy on the pancakes in the interim. You don’t wanna balloon up.”

  What Lucas is referring to is the mound of silver dollar pancakes that’s piled on an oversized diner plate sitting in front of me. It’s hard to tell they’re even pancakes because of the amount of butter and syrup on top of them. “Don’t worry. I’ll work this off later. Let me stress eat for one meal. It’s more productive than my usual coping methods. You know—getting black out drunk or beating some guy near to death and getting arrested. With those as alternatives, I’d say a plate of carbs is my best choice.”

  “Fair enough. Just don’t make it a habit.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Lucas gets a cup of coffee and I tell him what Scott said, while simultaneously shoveling little butter-soaked pancakes into my mouth. He seems interested. “I’ve heard of that before. There were a few guys in the UFC who this happened to. Hold on.” While I eat another pancake, Lucas takes out his phone and scrolls for a second. Finally, he stops and hands it to me. “Look here.”

  He’s right. There’s an article from a month ago about another fighter who was cleared due to bad supplements. “Shit. This might be my way out of this. Do you think Matt could contact this guy’s coach or manager and find out what steps he took to clear his name?”

  “I think Master Splinter is Master Splinter.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning there isn’t much that I don’t think that man can’t do, least of all getting in touch with another coach. Text him.”

  I do just that. Sent him a link to that article and briefly tell him about what Scott told me. He writes back that he’ll check it out and get back to me. I really hope he finds something.

  “Done.”

  “Good. Don’t get your hopes up just yet—there are other guys who’ve tried to claim this and their suspensions were upheld. It’s all about whatever you have to do to prove your innocence.”

  “I know Matt will work to find out whatever that is—then I’ll do whatever I have to do. I’m dying to get back in there, man. I’m dying to get a shot at Johnny.”

  “Then maybe we should lay off these.” Lucas gently grabs onto the edge of my plate and pulls it towards him. “Forget worst case scenario, we already know what that looks like. Well, it looks just like this—you getting fat over unhealthy diner food, telling stories of the good-old-days. But let’s consider best case scenario. You get your name cleared in a timely manner, book a fight, and fuck Johnny up. If that’s the case, you don’t want to mess things up by getting your weight too high. I know you’re still healing up that cut, but you should spend some time at the gym. Just being around the game will keep your mind in it, even if you can’t train.”

  “You mean it’s better to be around people training and fighting than it is to sit home eating? That’s crazy talk, but I’ll give it a shot.”

  We both laugh. “Good. Tomorrow I have my student coming in. You can work with him on striking.”

  “Who, Matt the Second?”

  “The one and only.”

  Matt the Second is a kid Lucas has worked with for a while—Lucas gave him the nickname since our trainer is also Matt. It started with the kid getting bullied at school. His parents brought him to the gym to learn self defense and self confidence, but even after the kids at school stopped bullying him, Matt kept coming to the gym to learn real MMA.

  “Of course. Love that kid. Just tell me what you want me to work on with him and we’ll get it done.”

  “Cool, thanks man. It’ll be good for both of you. And tomorrow morning you’re coming on a run with me.”

  “Why are we running?”

  “Because I just got a fight booked, and I need to be in shape. And by the way, so do you.”

  “Oh, shit. Congrats, man! That’s great news.”

  “Thanks, dude. I’m psyched. You’re going to be in my corner, right?”

  “Don’t ever ask me such a dumb question again. What time is the run?”

  “Five A.M.”

  “I’m in.”

  Hearing Lucas is about to go into camp lights a fire in me—a different kind of energy than my anxiety. It’s a happy energy, an excitement that makes me want to clear my name and get in there myself.

  I just hope Matt can help get this done.

  25

  Harper

  Later That Night

  “Read it to me?” he asks.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because I want to hear it in your voice. You wrote it, I want to hear it from you. And no cracks about fighters being too dumb to read.”

  I smile. “I’d never joke about that. I know you can read. Your ability to do basic math is still up in the air, though.”

  “Very funny,” he says. “Now read to me about myself.”

  I like the idea now that he’s asked me. I open up the file on my iPad and read my own words out loud.

  He’s a man unlike any other.

  His nickname in the cage is “The Sinner”, but names sometimes belie the complexity of the men and women who bear them. His given name is Damien Reyes, and he’s currently the number one welterweight contender in the New York Cage Fighting Championships. A close training partner of current UFC fighter Lucas “The Ghost” Esparza, Damien spends his days training at New York Fight Club with his head trainer and manager, Matt.

  Those of you who know me know that I’m a fight and fighter junkie—I watch all the major events and attend the local ones as a blogger and MMA reporter. Funny then, how even though I followed his career on the local circuit for years, I only met Damien by accident, when we were both patients in a physical therapist’s office, of all places.

  We got to talking, and he agreed to let me profile him for this piece. Let’s just say that I wasn’t disappointed in the story he had to tell.

  Damien came up rough. The child of a divorce, he bounced from his mother’s abusive home to his father’s abusive home when he was very little. In addition to that, a young Damien suffered from extreme bullying and physical intimidation while at school. It was this bullying, ironically, that prompted his father to take him for his first martial arts class.

  A growth spurt between the summers of his eighth and ninth grade years at school, coupled with his growing skill set as a marital artist, curbed the bullying and abuse he was getting both at home and at school. By the time he stepped into hi
s local high school, he looked less like the scared kid he was, and more like The Sinner we know and love.

  Tall and a total badass, Damien was able to defend himself from the few kids stupid enough to still try to mess with him. Throughout high school, he continued to train in all different disciplines, including traditional martial arts like Karate, Tae Kwon Do, and boxing, while later incorporating grappling arts such as Judo, wrestling, and Jiu Jitsu. When I asked him which he preferred, Damien told me, “I love to grapple. I’m good at it, it’s a necessary skill in MMA, but I really love to strike.”

  And, if you’ve seen his fights, you know that he’s telling the truth. And if you haven’t seen his fights, please check out the YouTube playlist I put together of some of his most spectacular wins—I linked that channel at the end of this article.

  Fast forward a few years. Damien became one of the youngest fighters to train at New York Fight Club, by invitation. There, he molded his skills before going on a tear in the regional East Coast fight scene. After traveling to study Muay Thai in Thailand for a year, he recently came back and started his winning ways again. . .

  I read the rest to him, and the closer I get to the end the more nervous I feel. “What do you think?” I ask once I finish. I’m almost scared to hear the answer, but the story is about him—I want him to like it.

  “I love it,” he tells me. “It’s perfect. And better than 99 percent of the crap I read online. It’s really good. It’s also weird to see my name in print like that—really cool.”

  It makes me so happy to hear that. I’ve been working on this for weeks and weeks and I’m glad to know that it’s paying off. “I just hope everyone else falls in love with you the way that I did. I know they will.”

  He looks at me differently when I say that—seductively—like there’s nothing in the room anymore except our two bodies. I’ve never told him that I loved him but I think he may have stuck on that part of my last statement. He gets up from where he was sitting at the opposite end of the couch and walks over to where I’m sitting, never taking his eyes off of me. There is an intensity in his eyes I’ve never seen before, a fire.