The Savage Sinner

by Harlan, Christopher

“I took too many kicks to the calf. Fucked my leg up good.”

  “Gotta check those kicks, right?”

  “You sound like my coach right now, you know that?”

  “Well, if I was your coach, you would have defended those kicks better and probably wouldn’t be here. Just saying.”

  I love how this girl takes no shit and isn’t afraid to joke around with me. And the fact that she’s a total smoke show doesn’t hurt either. I seriously can’t stop staring at her or picturing her naked, but then I start to worry that she’s another fight groupie. Those exist, and I’ve been with my fair share of them. That shit never works out—they’re the girls who just love the idea of a fighter, until they have to live with one. Most women aren’t about the kind of lifestyle a professional MMA fighter has to live—especially one who’s trying to make it into the biggest organization in the world.

  “My brother’s texting me he’s almost done in there, so I guess we have to cut our little convo short. Shame.”

  “It is. Now that you mention it, I’m going to see why it’s taking so long for me to get called.”

  “Good luck,” she says. “The secretary’s a little bit of a bitch.”

  Great. That’s just what I need. You know, because I’m so patient of a human being.

  I excuse myself for a second and go the receptionist’s desk. “Excuse me,” I say. The lady—who’s scrolling through Instagram and clicking gum—doesn’t even look up from her screen. I wait a few seconds and call her again. Nothing. Then I decide to step it up a notch. “Yo, lady.”

  That gets her attention. She’s an older woman, and one that looks like she hates her job more than I hate waiting to be called for my appointment. Not sure that’s even possible, because I’m pretty pissed off right now, but she’s pulling it off somehow. When she finally makes eye contact, she practically rolls her eyes at me. This is the last thing I need right now.

  “What do you want?” she asks. Somehow, she sounds exactly how I thought she would.

  “To be seen by the therapist before we elect a new president? That, and for you to drop your attitude.”

  “Name?” she says, not even noticing my insulting her.

  “Reyes. Damien Reyes.”

  “I don’t have you down.”

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. “No, there has to be some kind of mistake.”

  She looks up from her phone again when she hears my voice getting louder. “Sir, you’re going to have to calm down.”

  “No, lady. You’re going to have to get your face off of your screen and look back in that book again, because I definitely have an appointment.”

  She does what I ask, and I watch her to make sure she’s not messing with me, but even upside down I can see that my name isn’t there. So basically, I’ve been waiting for nothing.

  “Not here, sorry. You can schedule a new appointment right now or you can call.”

  “I did call.”

  “Apparently not.”

  I’ve had enough of this, and I’m about to lose my shit right here in the waiting room, so instead of that disaster I decide to swallow my pride and leave. Physical therapists are a dime a dozen—I don’t need this place.

  I step away from the receptionist’s desk, angry and sore, and remind myself where I am. Don’t flip out, Damien. Just take a deep breath.

  Before I walk out, I go over to my new friend one last time. “It was really nice meeting you. . . “

  “Harper. And it was nice meeting you too. I’m guessing you’re leaving?”

  “I have to. Otherwise I might break something. Apparently, they messed up their books. If they can’t get scheduling appointments done correctly, I’m not going to trust them with my leg.”

  “That’s sound logic,” she says.

  “Who knows,” I say. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “You mean like at another PT’s office? That would be unlikely.”

  I laugh. I didn’t think it was possible, but she brought me out of a funk with a simple comment. Who is this girl, and why does she seem to have this effect on me? Who knows? “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “But hey, you never know. Maybe you’ll see me sooner than you think.”

  I don’t know what she means, but I hope that she’s right. I’m not sure why I didn’t act—normally I would have asked her for her number and been a little more aggressive, but I just walk out instead.

  I’m annoyed that I came all this way for nothing, but it was worth it just to spend a few minutes with her.

  I hope she’s right.

  And I really hope that I run into her again.

  4

  Damien

  One week later

  “Too many Pitbulls in this game.”

  “Shut up.”

  I’m right. He’s wrong.

  There are too many Pitbulls in this game—not actual pitbulls, but guys who’ve decided to give themselves that nickname. The ‘he’ is Eli —one of our up and comers. The kid is a wizard on the ground, but he’s green when it comes to MMA training and fighting. He’s never had an actual bout, but one day he’s going to be better than all of us. He’s right out of high school—graduated last June, and now he’s training full time. He’s also currently searching for a nickname for when he steps inside of that cage one day. So far, his ideas suck.

  “What do you know?” he asks, angrily.

  “Me?” I answer sarcastically. “Eh, nothing. Just have a bunch of pro fights in the U.S. and a few in Asia that don’t even count towards my official record. I might fight for a title this year. You’re right, Eli, what the hell do I know?”

  “Alright, fine, you have more experience than me, I get it. Everyone has more experience than me. But how many guys have been in the game a long time who don’t have great names?”

  “You’re making my point for me. Better to be original—or even not have a nickname at all, than to be another god damn ‘pitbull.’ It’s wrong on a number of levels. Be original. Be yourself.”

  As Eli gets his gloves on, I give him a little history of the game. “The age of those tough guy names is over, my man. Might as well call yourself ‘the killer’ or something equally as dumb. That’s old school. Tough guys now are college educated and look like they’d come to your house to fix your computer, not like ex cons covered in prison tats. Pick a better name.”

  “Alright, fine, I’ll pick a better name. But who are you to hate on tatted guys? Have you looked in the mirror?”

  I knew I liked this kid for a reason. And he’s got me dead-to-rights on that one. I’m covered head to toe in tattoos—tribal stuff mostly, and some that no one except my ex girlfriends have ever seen. I smile at his comment. “Tattoos don’t make you original, kid. And they sure as hell don’t make you tough. They’re just ink. Just self expression. Kind of like fighting.”

  “Fighting? Self expression? I’ve never thought about it like that.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’re young and stupid, Eli.You just wanna punch and kick things right now. I get it—that’s the immature fighter in you. But one day you’ll realize that fighting is only a form of expression—the thing that helps you find yourself, and once you do, it’s the thing that let’s you show the world who that person is.”

  Eli looks at me sideways. I can’t tell if he thinks I’m Socrates or some washed up fighter who’s taken too many blows to the head.

  “You’re really smart, Damien, you know that?”

  Socrates. Definitely Socrates.

  “I’ve just been around and seen a thing or two. One day you’ll get all this. But right now, let’s get good at that punching and kicking stuff, shall we?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Good. Now let’s move around a little bit.”

  I can’t move that well. My leg still hurts but I’m showing Eli a technique that I’m really good at—and one that not a lot of fighters prepare for—the low calf kick. It hurts like hell and can seriously hamper an oppon
ent’s ability to move. I show him the technique for a few minutes and he soaks it up right away, just like everything else he learns.

  “Good work, Eli. You use that in a fight against a wrestler and they won’t be shooting any doubles on you anytime soon.”

  “I like the move a lot.”

  “Of course you do, it’s devastating.”

  “Oh, shit! How about that?”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “The Devastator! That could be my nickname.”

  I roll my eyes and give him a look that’s meant to communicate ‘what the fuck’ better than my mouth could. Nonetheless, I’ll do my best.

  “What the fuck? I said be original, not corny. The Devastator? That shit sounds like some failed Marvel Comic character.”

  “Hater.”

  “I’m hating on your stupidity right now. Throw the kick again and kindly shut the fuck up while you’re doing it. Thank you.”

  I give Eli worlds of shit—mostly because he deserves it—but the truth is I relate to the kid, and I really enjoy seeing him learn and grow. I appreciate that he sees me as some kind of mentor, so I want to make sure I’m giving the kind of advice he needs to advance his career and be a better man.

  I hold the pads for as long as my leg will hold up under all of the movement I have to do to keep up with Eli—he’s got some real natural talent, a feel for how to move that’s hard to teach. You have to be born with that.

  After a few minutes, I need a break. “Alright, time. Good work young pad-won. We’re done for today.”

  “Getting tired?”

  “Don’t get cocky, kid. I’ll still whip that ass. But yeah, the leg’s a little sore. I need this fucking thing to heal up already.”

  I hear the front door bells go off and turn to see who just walked in the gym. I only met the kid who’s walking towards me a few weeks ago, but I love him already. “Matt the Second!” I don’t know the whole story, but I know Lucas was giving this kid private lessons in self defense Jiu Jitsu because he got messed up at school. Something like that. Lucas told me to work with the kid on some striking. Apparently, he wants to train and maybe have a fight one day. I appreciate his balls. I appreciate anyone who won’t stand by and be a victim.

  “Hey, Damien. Sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re not late,” I tell him. “Right on time. Hey, do you know Eli? Eli, this is one of Lucas’. . . what would you call yourself?”

  “His student, I guess. I don’t really know, he never gave himself a title like that.”

  “Eh, titles are overrated. What can I help you with today?”

  “Well, Lucas said that you were the best striker at the gym, and that if I wanted to learn proper technique you were the man.”

  “See, that’s why I love my boy, Lucas. UFC or no UFC—the kid knows I’d catch him all day with these hands.”

  “Keep dreaming!” He’s here early, but I know that voice anywhere. When I hear the commotion of people gathering around him, I turn. “Lucas! Wow, everyone’s here.”

  “I know,” he says. “It’s great to be back here, man.”

  I give him a hug. It feels great to have him back. Lucas is on the rise in his career, but I’ve really missed being around him. He was my number one training parter—the guy who kept me sharp and got the better of me from time to time. He’s like a brother, and I’m so happy that I got to be there when he won the fight that got him into the UFC.

  Lucas looks exhausted. He has to be after the whirlwind of a week he must have had. I want to hear all about it. “You wanna grab lunch?” I ask him.

  “For sure. You wanna go now?

  “I have to show your pupil a thing or two first, but then he’s good on his own. Is Master Splinter coming?” I ask.

  “I’ll text him.”

  An hour later, Lucas and I are sitting at the diner, waiting for Matt. The place smells amazing, but I’ve already decided that I’m going to start watching my weight, in case I can get a fight. I actually want to talk to Matt about that today.

  “So tell me about Vegas while we wait.”

  “That place is crazy, man. Mila and I walked the strip. It’s nothing like New York.”

  “It must suck, then,” I laugh. We’re both born and bred New Yorkers, and one of the characteristics of calling yourself a New Yorker is believing that every other place on the planet is just a little bit worse than the place we call home.

  “It was cool, just different. But I wasn’t there for Vegas itself.”

  “I was going to ask you about the rest, but I figured that Matt would want to hear also.”

  “He will. He should. Speaking of the devil.”

  Matt walks in a few minutes late, looking red in the face. “Fucking traffic!” he yells, and not just to us, to the whole diner. After he lets out that little outburst, he goes back to being himself—smiling and waving towards the owners. Everyone knows us here—the place is just a little bit from the gym and we all come in here all the time. It’s probably the safest diner in the city. “What’s going on boys?”

  “Just waiting for our favorite rat.”

  Matt rolls his eye. He hates that nickname, but I think secretly he loves it. “Shut up with that.”

  “Sorry,” I joke. “Master Splinter it is. I get it, you prefer your full name.”

  “I’m so happy to see you, Damien, you know that?”

  I laugh out loud. “Come on, you know you love me. You love both of us.”

  Matt doesn’t confirm or deny—he doesn’t have to—he knows he hearts us. I just smile when he looks away and engages Lucas. “So, tell me.”

  Lucas sits up and calls the waiter over. “Coffee, please.”

  “Make that three!” I yell.

  The waiter walks off to get the pot and Lucas tells us what happened. “Weird place, weird people, but great meeting with the UFC. They offered me a contract and I signed it.”

  I decide to jump in. “That’s great man! So I take it you’re paying for lunch?”

  “Very funny, and no, not with that contract I signed.”

  “What do you mean?” Matt asks, his hackles obviously on the rise. I’m kind of curious myself.

  “You know all those articles and news stories they’re always doing about fighters in MMA not getting paid very much unless they’re at the highest level?”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “Turns out that’s all true. The contract is kind of shit, but it was either that or nothing, so I signed.”

  “And when you say ‘shit’, you mean what?” Matt looks concerned, like one of his guys got exploited, and he’s very protective of his fighters—Lucas and I in particular. “Did they take advantage of you?”

  Lucas thinks about that for a minute. In the silence, the waiter walks over and pours three hot cups of steaming black goodness into our cups, and as I put the cup to my lips Lucas finally answers. “I don’t think I’d say it that way. Look, it was my choice to sign the contract or not sign the contract. No one forced me or coerced me into anything. I understood the terms, and I signed willingly. So I can’t say that they took advantage of me, but they definitely low ball new fighters like me because they can. But I have a plan. I always have a plan.”

  “And what’s your plan?” Matt asks.

  “Simple. I signed a three-fight contract. I fight all three this year, win them all in spectacular fashion, and then when I go to negotiate a new contract I’ll be in a much better position—a position where I can demand more money or take my services to another organization if I have to. Simple.”

  “Simple, but not easy,” Matt says. “There are a lot of pieces that have to fall into place there.”

  “Are you doubting me?” Lucas asks. It sounds like a genuine question, and the look on Matt’s face says it all.

  “Is that a serious fucking question, Lucas? It had better not be, because if you think that’s what I’m saying, then you’re the one doubting me. It’s not about that.”

  “I’m sorr
y,” he answers. “I just. . . I always feel like the underdog. For once I want to be the front runner, and I hate being doubted.”

  “Good,” Matt says, leaning across the table and patting Lucas on the arm. “You need a little bit of a chip on your shoulder to be a good fighter. Too much of a chip and you’re a liability. Not enough and you’ll never be hungry enough to be a world champion. But. . .”

  “Master Splinter?” I interrupt. “Are you going MMA Goldilocks right now? Holy crap, I think you are. Wait, can I record this in case I ever get down on my career and need some inspiration? We can make a YouTube channel out of this kind of stuff.”

  “Shut up, Damien, we’re getting to you next.”

  “Oh, shit,” Lucas jokes. “Sounds like someone’s in trouble.”

  “Back to you, dip shit,” Matt says, sounding as much like a dad as he ever has. “You’ve gotta hear me here. Really hear me. I have zero doubt that you can smoke three guys at your weight class. I truly believe that you’re one of the best in the world. I’m just saying, from a career standpoint, you need to think about what happens if you get a crappy decision, or get injured in one of those fights and can’t stay on the schedule you want to. You might want to consider what’s going to happen financially in those scenarios. The last thing I’m worried about is you winning. We’ll do our best to make sure that part is taken care of.”

  “I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean to lash out like that. I know you don’t doubt me, I just want to make the most of this opportunity. I don’t want to be just another guy in the pack.”

  “I know, kid. I know.”

  I’m listening to this whole conversation and parts of it are really hitting home. We’re just two fighters and a trainer sitting in a diner drinking coffee, but what’s happening inside of me is much different than what it looks like on the outside. I’m feeling hungry for a fight. Hungry for a win. Hungry to get into a position like Lucas is in now. That expression he just used—that he doesn’t want to just be another guy in the pack—that really hits home. Deep down, we all have that fear—to be just another old guy who’s telling fight stories to his friends at the bar. That’s not going to be Lucas, and it sure as hell is not going to be me.