This wasn’t real sparring. I can’t really spar yet because of my hamstring, but, if I don’t push my body too hard, I should heal up pretty quickly.
I touch gloves with Tristan, another up and comer in the gym. Kid looks like a fighter—all tatted up, sometimes even rocking a full beard. He’s a beast, and one day he’ll be a champion. This gym is good at producing those. First it was Kane, then Lucas, and hopefully I’m next in that line.
For now, though, I’m just a tired asshole with a bum leg who really needs a shower. One step at a time I guess. I take my gloves and headgear off as a giant poster of Lucas hangs above me. It wasn’t there when I left for Thailand, but then again Lucas wasn’t a UFC fighter when I left either, though he was on his way. I was lucky enough to be there for the fight that won him the local title that got him a call up to the big one, and now he’ll hang over all the fighters forever. Getting on the wall is a milestone. One day I’ll be there too.
After some light work, I take a shower and get changed in the back. My leg is sore and not even close to one hundred percent yet. Matt comes in the back after I’m dressed to check up on me.
“You weren’t moving great out there, how’s the leg feeling?”
“Not terrible,” I answer. “But we were going super light.”
“Working your way back up has to start somewhere. Injuries are part of the game. You know this.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
And so does Matt.
Matt was a fighter in the wrong time and place. He would have been that guy who crossed over into the mainstream, another Conor McGregor—he’s good looking, young, and a monster in the cage, but a bad injury sidelined him. After that, he took over the gym from his dad and started training all of us, and that took over his life.
I’m not happy he got hurt, but I am happy to have a trainer like him. He’s the best guy in the business that no one knows about. But if Lucas and myself make it big, that’ll all change. Thankfully, for the time being, he’s my secret weapon.
“I’m gonna be honest, I don’t think I can fully train just yet.”
“And here I thought you were going to beg me to get you a fight before you were ready.”
He knows me too well. I usually don’t care about my physical state—I just grind. But that’s what got me into this situation to begin with. If I’m not careful, and rush back into the cage, I could make this an injury like Matt had—a career ender. So, for once, I have to do the right thing with my body.
“Normally I would, you know that. I’d fight a dude if I had a broken arm.”
“I know you would. That’s why I’m here. Sometimes trainers need to protect you all from yourselves. My dad did the same for me. We’re too tough for our own good.”
“You got that right.”
“So what are you gonna do? Take some time off? Teach?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “I’m no teacher, that’s Lucas’ deal. I have no patience whatsoever.”
“Neither did he, at first. I had to show him how to teach. I think it made him a better marital artist. I think he’d agree.”
“Speaking of your new golden boy, he’s back from his vacay with Mila soon, yes? I forgot the date and I haven’t spoken to him in a week.”
“Yup—he’s already spending that contract money before he’s even fought. And he’s not my golden boy, you know I don’t play favorites.”
I want to call him a liar, because I’m secretly a little jealous of what Lucas has accomplished, but I can’t be a hater. I love the guy like he’s my brother, and even though I want what he’s got, I’m happy for him. I just hate sitting on the sidelines. I’m not meant for that. And Matt’s telling the truth. He’s never treated Lucas or any of the guys at the gym better than any other. He’s as fair as they come.
“I know, I’m only joking. But what’s his deal now? He have a fight?”
“Working on it now. It’s a process. It’s so much different when you’re dealing with a huge professional organization like that. It’s not like booking you guys something local. There are rules, regulations, contract negotiations. It’s nuts.”
“It’s nuts but it’ll pay off—for you and him both.”
“I hope so. That kid has worked his ass off. So have you, for that matter. Only you did it half a world away, in some remote village with no electricity.”
“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. I enjoyed the lifestyle. It was the lack of medicine and good training facilities that fucked me up.”
I get a raised eyebrow for that one. “You know what I’m going to say.”
“I do, but you can say it anyway. I kind of like hearing it.”
Matt smiles. He doesn’t do that a whole lot, but when he does it makes everyone else smile also. He knows I love his little sayings. “Fine,” he says. “But it’s not going to be as good ‘cause it’s not spontaneous.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“You either win. . .”
“Or you learn. I swear, man, you’re the only guy in the world who can use those tired old expressions and the shit sounds like brand new wisdom every time. You should write them out and put them on the wall or something—maybe right next to Lucas’ ugly ass face.”
“You’re just jealous. You want a life-sized poster of yourself that everyone has to look at the second they walk into the gym. Admit it.”
I throw my hands up in the air and smile. “I’ll be real with you, I’m not saying no to that if it happens, but I have to earn it. Otherwise, it doesn’t mean shit.”
He smiles for the second time in two sentences—that’s a record for him—and puts his hands on my shoulders. “And that attitude is exactly why you’re going to be a champion one day.” He takes his hands away and stands up. A little encouragement like that makes all the difference in the world. “That, and the fact that I’ll beat your ass worse than your last opponent did if you try to get on a plane to Asia again without me.”
“Yes, sir. As much as I love these little pep talks, I gotta go.”
“Home?”
“PT, actually.”
“You’re going to physical therapy?”
“Not much of a choice if I want to get back in there for real, right? I mean, I can’t have these fools thinking they can get the better of me. Right now, they’re just seeing Damien at about thirty percent. What they need to see is The Sinner. And to be him again, I have to rehab this leg, like it or not.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you. Go get it worked on. Text me and let me know what’s going on. If you want to do some light work, I’ll put you on the schedule for the week.”
“Will do, Matt. And thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not being an asshole about the leg. I know it was stupid.”
“Kid, if I had a nickel for every stupid thing I did back when I was twenty-one. . .”
“Then you’d be a rich man?”
“Exactly.”
“Damn, you did it again. I’m telling you, write this shit down. You can at least have some tee shirts made or something.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Go heal up, you gimp.”
“That hurts me, Matt, it really does.” I can’t stop laughing. I don’t want to go to some bullshit physical therapy— I want to be in that octagon lighting dudes up with my combinations, but that’ll have to be put on hold for the time being. Right now, I need to get better. I’m not willing to put my career in jeopardy again.
By the time I get in my car and start her up, I realize that I don’t even remember the name of the place. “Shit.” I take my phone out and look at my search history. There it is. I plug the address into the GPS on my phone and hit the gas—says it’ll take ten minutes to get there. This GPS lady clearly does not understand New York traffic.
3
Damien
My leg is killing me.
I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, but, if I had to, I’d climb into the ring and go a few rounds.
But, I have to be smart this time around. I pop a few Tylenol after pulling into the parking lot. The place was easy enough to find but took forever with traffic. I have an appointment to see a PT named Roy, and hopefully he can help me heal up faster. Seriously—what the hell kind of PT is named Roy? I guess he’s good, but I’ll find out soon enough. I can’t get over that name, though.
Inside, the place is your standard physical therapy office. I drop my butt into a seat and check the time. My appointment is in five minutes but this office is pretty full. I hope they’re not running too far behind. As I’m waiting and messing around on my phone, I get a text from Lucas—he’s out in Vegas negotiating a contract with the big show—which is what we call the UFC around the gym.
Lucas: How’s the leg?
Damien: Hurting, man, hurting. I’m at PT now. Went too hard at the gym.
Lucas: What else is new?
Damien: Forget my gimpy ass. How’s Vegas? You doing eight balls?
Lucas: No eight balls or hookers. I’m with Mila for one, but also staying in shape in case a fight comes up last minute.
The UFC—the Ultimate Fighting Championship—is known for giving fighters—especially new ones who are low on the totem pole—a short notice fight. Normally, fighters like a six-to-eight week training camp to feel prepared for competition. But when the UFC calls, you answer, even if it means fighting under circumstances that are less than ideal.
Damien: Good call. You could get a fight in two weeks if someone on their roster gets injured. You’re playing it smart. You always do.
Lucas: Hopefully that’s not what happens. I haven’t even officially signed my contract yet. That’s happening in about an hour. Once I sign on that dotted line I’m on the UFC roster!
Damien: That’s insane, man. I’m so happy for you.
Lucas: Heal up. It’s your turn next.
My turn next.
I’ve been thinking about that since the second I found out Lucas was getting a deal. I was there when he won his title, and now that he’s getting called up it seems like something that’s actually attainable. When you train, it’s all abstract—gyms are full of tough guys who love to fight, but not enough of them think of making fighting into a legitimate career. They don’t think strategically about the long term—they just want to get in there and hurt someone.
I hate to admit it, but I used to be one of those guys who just wanted to bang—to get in there and be violent. But now that I know someone who’s going to have a chance at a long career, I need to start being smarter with my choices.
Lucas stops texting after that. He’s probably busy walking the strip with Mila before his big meeting later. I wish I was there instead of sitting with a sore leg in this stupid office. I look down at my watch. Five minutes has passed and still nothing. My leg is starting to hurt and I’m not the most patient guy in the world. Maybe I’ll check some MMA websites.
Some guys at the gym leave it all behind when they walk out at the end of the day—they don’t want to know about anything fight related. Not me. I live and breathe this life. It’s the only way to do it right in my opinion. I watch every fight I can DVR. I go to live events that are near me. I read all the latest articles on the UFC and other local organizations to see what’s going on.
I read three full articles before I get annoyed. One is about drug testing, the other is about the last pay per view title fight in the UFC, and the last one is about my boy. The headline reads “New York fighter the latest UFC prospect.” Wow, Lucas, you’re big time now. I read the article, which gets the name of our gym wrong, and messes up Lucas’ weight class three different times, calling him a heavyweight instead of a light heavyweight.
“Fuckin’ dumb ass reporters,” I say under my breath. I’m a generally loud person, so ‘under my breath’ actually comes out like a normal tone of voice.
“Excuse me?”
I turn to the voice coming from my right. I have to do a double take when my eyes meet hers. There’s a beautiful woman sitting next to me and I can’t stop staring at her. I think she asked me something. “Huh?”
She leans forward in her chair, and that’s when I get a close look at her eyes—crystal blue and gorgeous. She has long brown hair that hangs down her chest. “What about reporters?”
“What are you talking about? And you’re not the old lady.”
“Okay, now I have a second ‘what’ to ask you after you answer my first ‘what’?”
“Oh, sorry,” I tell her. “There was an old lady in that seat when I got here—she was with her husband or something. She must have gotten up.”
“She was going in as I got here. I sat down after she got up. You didn’t notice? I guess not, your face was buried in your phone. You should look up every once and a while, you’ll catch more things happening in real life.”
Who is this girl? And how is she more sarcastic than I am? “I’ll take that under advisement. And I was reading an article about a friend of mine but, in typical fashion, the reporter screwed up all sorts of basic facts.”
“Really?”
“Yup. This is what happens when any asshole can start a website and a blog for $29.99 a month. No more editing. No more journalistic integrity.”
“Do you teach journalism or something?”
I have to smile at that one. Never gotten that before. “Do I look like I work for the Associated Press?”
“Nope,” she says mockingly. “But, then again, you also don’t look like a guy who’d be on a rant about journalistic integrity in the modern age of the Internet either. So who knows?”
I might propose to this girl before my appointment is over. “I’m Damien.”
“Hi Damien.” She’s even prettier when she smiles, and I didn’t think that was possible. “Well, it’s nice to see someone so passionate about the written word.”
That’s not all I’m passionate about. “I’m not, really, I just don’t like when someone, whose job it is to pay attention to detail and facts, ignores both just to get some clicks. I hate short cuts. My coach says attention to detail is what makes me good at what I do.”
She leans in even closer. “Coach, huh? You’re an athlete?”
“I am. I’m a mixed martial artist. That’s like. . .”
“I know what MMA is. And I should have guessed, with all the tattoos and such.”
I forget my tattoos are there sometimes. It takes someone pointing them out, like she just did, for me to remember not everyone has drawings up and down their arms. She can’t even see the best ones. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to condescend. You like tattoos?”
“That depends,” she says. “Only if they’re good ones. I’m pretty judgmental when it comes to good ink.”
I think I’m in love. “Alright, Captain Judgmental, what do you think of mine? Don’t hold back, I can take it. I get punched in the face for a living.”
She looked me up and down, starting at my arms then moving up to the collar of my shirt, where a few more peek their way out before spreading up my neck. “Hard to say. I’d need to see the rest of them to judge more accurately. I know those aren’t your only ones. Am I right?”
“Uh-huh.”
Holy shit. I’m not cocky when it comes to women. Well—that’s not completely true. I’m cocky in my attitude, but I don’t expect women to fall all over me, but I’m definitely getting some vibes here. I don’t know if it’s the tone of her voice, or the way she’s looking at me, but there’s an energy between us that’s undeniable.
“Maybe one day I’ll show you,” I say.
She doesn’t address what I just said. She just moves on to the next topic. “You said the article that pissed you off was about your friend. Who’s your friend?”
“You wouldn’t know him.”
“Try me.”
“Alright. His name is Lucas. He just got picked up by the UFC. That stands for. . .”
“Holy shit! I may be a girl, but I’m not dumb—I know what the UFC stands for.”
&nbs
p; Shit. That’s twice I’ve done that. “I’m sorry—again. I’m just used to people not knowing what I do, or thinking that I’m a cage fighter from the early 1990’s or something—when you were allowed to kick in the groin and stomp people in the head when they were down.”
“Ah, the good old days,” she says, smiling. “And for your information, I know who “The Ghost” is too. He’s a great fighter.”
What? She knows Lucas? This is so weird. I guess, at this point, it’s pretty clear that this girl is either a real fight fan or she trains herself. “No shit? How do you know Lucas?”
“Believe it or not, I was there when he won his title. It was a great fight.”
“So, you’re a fan? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you know a lot more about fighting than your average woman—and usually that either spells fan or fighter, and you look too delicate to be a fighter.”
“Excuse me? Delicate? I’ll have you know I have a pretty good left hook—at least that’s what my brother always told me.”
“Yeah, probably because you beat him up your entire life ‘cause you were older.”
“That’s true. At least it was until he got bigger than me. I miss those days when I could still kick his ass. He’s actually the reason I’m here. He’s inside now. Back injury.”
“Those are the worst. Hope he gets better soon. But you didn’t say—fan or fighter?”
“I’m a big fan of MMA, let’s put it that way. And I don’t like to fight unless I have to, but if it came to it, I could hold my own. I’m scrappy.”
I believe it. I’d love to see you scrap. Fuck, Damien, get your mind out of the gutter! “I bet.”
“You have a fight coming up?” she asks.
“Not at the moment. I just got back from Southeast Asia and I’m a little hobbled at the moment. That’s why I’m here. I’m itching to get back in there, though. I just need to heal up first.”
“Is it bad?” she asks, looking down at my leg.
“No, thank God. Just a little battered. Nothing crazy, but enough to make life annoying.”
“What happened?”
The Savage Sinner Page 2