The Savage Sinner

by Harlan, Christopher

  “And now to you,” Matt says, on cue. “The leg? What’s the update?”

  “The update is that I almost had an unsanctioned fight with that receptionist. She lost my appointment and had an attitude about it, so I’m looking for a new one right now. In the meantime, I’ve been stretching on my own and not straining it too much. But I can’t just sit around doing nothing, Matt. You know me.”

  “I do,” he says. “Very well. Which is why I had an idea.”

  “Uh-oh. That scares me a little.”

  “Nothing to be scared about. I know you want to be around the action even though you can’t take part in it right now, not until you heal up anyway. I know you don’t like teaching lessons, so how about you help me finish the training camps for the fighters with fights coming up and help me corner them on fight night? That would really help.”

  “Sure,” I say without hesitation. “I’d love to. It’s going to be hard not training alongside them, though.”

  “I know,” Matt says. “But you need to rest up or risk a longer-term injury, then you’ll have no career.”

  Lucas jumps in. “I have a good PT,” he says. “I’ll text you his number. He helped me rehab a few years back when I fucked my knee up.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember that guy,” I say. “He was good?”

  “Really good. Got me back to new. And your thing isn’t even that bad. Here.”

  Lucas texts me the guys number and I set a reminder to call him. “Thank, brother. I’ll give him a buzz later.”

  “You got it.”

  “So,” Matt says randomly. “Now what?”

  “Now you take off your trainer hat, put on your manager hat instead, and work on getting me onto a card in the next few months.”

  “Got that itch, huh?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.” This is the longest I’ve ever gone in my career without an MMA fight. I’d done grappling competitions and some minor stuff in Thailand, but nothing that’s going to further my career like a win in a local circuit fight. “It’s been too long. It’s time to punch some motherfuckers in the face already.”

  “Hell yeah!” Lucas says. “I don’t have a fight scheduled, so once Matt gets you one, I’m in your corner just like you were in mine, bro. Whatever you need.”

  “I appreciate that. And once you get that call to sign a fight contract, you know I’m there for you also.”

  Matt practically giggles. “What?” Lucas asks.

  “I think you two should get a room immediately.”

  We all crack up. I decide that I need a few more cups of coffee but Matt needs to leave to get to a training session, so we say our goodbyes. Then Lucas and I get to talking.

  “So you almost fought some lady at an office, huh? I see all that time in Thailand helped your anger issues.”

  “She was a bitch. Really nasty. I didn’t say this to Matt, but the trip to the PT wasn’t a total wash. I met a girl.”

  Lucas looks up from his coffee and raises his eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Tell me about her.”

  “She was a ten. Better than a ten. They don’t even make a scale for how hot this girl is. She had long hair and light eyes, and this amazing energy. She totally made me forget that I was sitting in some shitty office waiting for an appointment that was never coming. Shit, I didn’t even feel the pain in my leg while we were talking.”

  “Sounds amazing. That’s how I felt about Mila at first. The hot part, at least. But it took a while for us to get to know one another.”

  “I remember, you two hated each other. Remember when she stormed out. . .”

  “Yeah,” he says, cutting me off. “I remember. She never misses a chance to remind me.”

  “How are things between you two?” I ask.

  “Never better. We’re getting really serious. One day you’ll be best man at our wedding.”

  “Oh, shit, that is serious. And thanks, brother.”

  “Of course. Now tell me about your girl.”

  “Not my girl. Not even close. Actually, I’m not sure I’ll ever even seen her again.”

  Lucas almost spits out his coffee. “What are you talking about? You made it sound like you two were picking out engagement rings or something.”

  “Not quite.” I tell him the story—the whole story—and he looks at me like an older brother.

  “Rookie.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s amateur hour, man. You meet a girl who’s as hot as you describe—who makes you forget the pain in your leg, and you leave saying you hope you see her again? You needed to get those digits, man. I can’t believe you left it up to the fates like that. What if you never see her again?”

  Shit. I know he’s right. And I don’t know why I didn’t act, that’s not like me at all. I’m the opposite with most women. If I see something—more so someone in this case—I want, I’ll just go up to them and ask for their number if I feel like we have a vibe going. I don’t know what made me hesitate with her, but now I feel stupid for not closing the deal.

  “I fucked that up, didn’t I?”

  “A little, yeah. You could always just troll the PT office around the same time each week and see if she shows back up so you can get her number.”

  “That sounds a little too stalker-ish for me. What’s plan B?”

  “Like you said, Damien. Hope. Hope that you see her again.”

  5

  Damien

  Three months later

  There’s nothing like the energy of a live crowd.

  Fight fans are their own breed. When you gather them together, there’s nothing like it. Whether they’re cheering or booing doesn’t even matter. All that matters is that they care, and MMA fans care a lot.

  It’s been a while since I’ve been to a live event in America. Fighting in Asia is a different thing—the crowds there are quieter—respectful, even when there’s a lot of crazy action going on in the ring. American crowds are loud, and they’re not above letting you know exactly what they think of you and your ability to keep them entertained.

  It feels good to be back around the game. It feels like home. I finally found a physical therapist who was competent, and I took the last few months to heal up my leg. I’m almost back to full training, and, in the meantime, I’m cornering the guys from our gym for their fights while I wait for one of my own.

  Tonight, Matt has two guys competing—Conan and Colby—both great guys and friends of mine. Conan fought earlier and won with a first-round submission stoppage. That kid is an absolute beast on the ground. He submits everyone at the gym, so it was no surprise that he made short work of his opponent. Now we have about an hour until Colby has his turn, but while he warms up in the back, I’m stealing some time to myself to watch the fights.

  I’m as much of a fan as I am a fighter. It’s not like other jobs in that way. Most people spend their day surrounded by their profession, and the last thing they want to do in their free time is hear about it. I’m the opposite. I can train for three hours then go home and watch a full six hours of fights. I love the game. I love everything about it.

  But right now, it’s not just the fights I’m enjoying, it’s that infectious energy that fills the whole place when two men—or women—get into that octagon to do battle for fifteen minutes. I’m right there with them as the two heavyweights are swinging on each other, and it’s only a matter of time before someone goes to sleep in there.

  With every landed shot the crowd erupts, waiting in anticipation for someone to fall. I look around the crowd as it gets louder and louder with each passing blow, and that’s when I see her sitting cage side.

  Holy shit! Is that the girl from the therapist’s office? Harper? It can’t be. . . but I think it is.

  I swear to God that’s her. How else could a single woman catch my attention in this room full of a thousand people?

  I watch the match for the last thirty seconds or so. Once the bell rings and the fight is over, I head back to the locker room
to help my boy Colby. His fight is the co-main event, so there are still a few matches to go before he steps into that cage.

  Back in the locker room, Matt’s holding pads for Colby and Conor is celebrating his victory with a hot shower and the peace of mind that comes from knowing you’ve done your job perfectly. As soon as there’s a pause in the action, I jump in.

  “You need me?”

  “Right now?” Matt asks. “Nah, we’re good. You watching the fights?”

  Here’s where I tell half the truth and half of a lie. The truth comes when I say, “Yeah. The heavyweight one I just saw was filled with action. All stand up.” That part is true. The lie comes when I follow up with, “But I’m really psyched about the next one—some welterweight fight. I’ve heard of that one guy. What’s his name?”

  “The Spider?”

  I have no idea who that is, but clearly Matt does. “Yeah, right, the Spider. I couldn’t remember his name. He’s up and I want to check him out, but if you need me I’m here for you.”

  “Don’t worry,” Colby tells me. “Go ahead and scout. Just come back after, I want to work on this one kick with you.”

  “You got it.”

  The real reason I want to go back out there isn’t because of some fight, it’s to see Harper. I have no idea what she’s doing here, all I know is that when I laid my eyes on her all of the noise in this arena faded into the background.

  I head back out and see her still sitting ringside. When she looks my way, we finally lock eyes. I must be making a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here face, because she smiles like she’s amused by my confusion. She gets up and heads over to where I’m standing.

  “Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here, Damien. I thought you were on the mend.”

  “I’m mended, actually. I found a physical therapist whose name wasn’t Roy and I actually listened to his advice, despite myself. I healed up and everything. I’m looking for a fight right now.”

  “I told you about this left hook of mine, right? We could throw hands whenever you want.”

  I laugh. I forgot how funny she was on top of being the hottest woman I’ve ever seen in my damn life. I’m so caught up in how hot and funny she is that I forget that she shouldn’t even be here. “What are you doing here? I figured you were watching the fights, but you are sitting cage side. Do you know someone who got you those seats?”

  “Nope,” she says. “I always get those seats. Part of my job, you know?”

  Now I’m confused. “Your job?”

  “Yeah. I’m one of those—how did you put it—oh yeah, those ‘fucking reporters’. The ones who get facts wrong.”

  Holy shit. This girl’s not just a fan, and she’s not a fighter—she’s an MMA journalist. “No shit? You’re a. . . .”

  “Non-fact-checking hack. And just so you know, my website host is $35.99 a month, not $29.99. I have the premium version. The one that lets me post my unedited articles as often as I like.”

  “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I’m a dick.”

  “Nah, you were right, I’m just fucking with you. There are a lot of shitty journalists out there—and I use that term really loosely. Especially in this sport. It’s the Wild West.”

  “You got that right.”

  “But I take this seriously. I fact and spell check, I promise.”

  “That’s definitely a good thing. I have a love-hate relationship with the MMA media. Not that they’re beating down my door for an interview or anything. I’m no one just yet, but I always watch from the sidelines as to which ones actually love the game, and which ones are just trying to catch the wave of MMA popularity. Trust me, there’s a difference.”

  “I hear you. But let’s go back to what you said before.”

  “Which part?” I ask.

  “You being no one. I didn’t like that.”

  I laugh. “I don’t like it either, but I’m working on it. Like I said, once I get these fights lined up and I can take a run at the title on the local scene, everyone is going to know my name. But until then, it’s a little rough. It’s a crowed sport nowadays. It’s hard to stand out in the crowd, especially if you’re not going to cut a WWE promo every time there’s a camera around, just to get your ten minutes of fame.”

  “So then I’m guessing you’re not the Conor McGregor type, huh?”

  “I love and respect what that man’s done—both for himself and the sport—but personality wise? No, I’m not looking for attention for anything except my destructive capabilities in the octagon.”

  “That’s not enough,” she says. “Not today. Like you said, it’s a crowded field.”

  “Well then I guess I’m just going to have to be undeniable in there until everyone has no choice but to notice me.”

  “You should. That’s exactly what you should do. But the UFC is looking for more than just good fighters who can knock people out. They want personalities. Stories. People who sell tickets, pay per view buys, and subscriptions to their streaming services.”

  She’s right. The girl knows her shit, I’ll give her that. I respect her point of view. Still, I can’t stop undressing her with my mind, but lucky respecting her and wanting to see her naked aren’t mutually exclusive things.

  “I don’t know about personality, but I definitely have a story. Just not something I brag about to get Twitter followers. Not my style.”

  She looks down and smiles. I don’t really know her at all, but I feel like I do. It feels like we’ve known each other for a long time. I can tell that the gears are turning in her head. “Maybe I can do something about that. Because, unlike you, I do appreciate a good follow on Twitter. . . or Insta. . . or on my blog. Well, you get the point. But I’m working my way up in this reporting world, and I have a pretty decent following so far. My articles get liked and reposted by some heavy names in the industry.”

  “You didn’t strike me as the braggadocios type.”

  “Well you don’t know me just yet, Damien. Bragging about myself is like, my favorite activity after hanging around sweaty fighters.”

  I look at her sideways, and that’s when she smiles and breaks character. “I’m joking. God, you’re gullible.”

  I laugh. “That’s the funny thing, I’m really not. You can ask anyone. I’m usually the one punking other people, not getting punked.”

  “I guess I just bring out a different side of you.”

  You sure as hell do. “I guess so. But where were you going with your whole ‘decent following’ thing?”

  “Here’s a crazy idea. Why don’t you let me do a piece on you?”

  “A piece?”

  “Like an in-depth article—we can call it a profile. The kind where we spend a few weeks together. I can hang out with you, come to training sessions, really get into your past and your motivation. Something that will get people invested in who you are as a fighter. That way, when you finally start destroying people again, people will give a shit past some highlight reel they can watch on YouTube. It’ll be good for both of us.”

  “You mean you get even more likes and retweets and I get noticed for who I am?”

  “And here I thought fighters were dumb. You got it, Damien.”

  “You have a weird ability to make bitchiness sexy, do you know that?” Fuck. I meant to say ‘funny’, not ‘sexy’, but it just slipped out. This girl makes me mix up my words. I hope I didn’t offend her.

  “Wow,” she says. “I’ve never been offended and flattered in the same sentence. I guess you have a weird ability also, I’m just not sure what to name yours. But what do you say about the article?”

  “Are you sure you want to hang around me for a few weeks? What if you get sick of me or end up thinking I’m just another dumb fighter?”

  “Oh, I’m already there, so don’t worry. It can only get better from here.”

  I laugh again. Hardly anyone makes me laugh out loud. Maybe spending weeks together won’t be such a bad thing after all. “In that case, I’d love to. When do we start
?”

  “I have some time tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I ask. I wasn’t expecting her to want to start so soon. “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t be a prima donna, Damien. Are you back to training?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So tomorrow then?”

  I can’t resist her. Plus, the idea of seeing her again in twenty-four hours is making my shorts a little tighter than they were a minute ago. “Tomorrow then. Can I get your number?”

  “Smooth,” she jokes. “The old ‘can I get your number bitchy-yet-sexy reporter girl?’”

  “You’re a real ball-buster. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Just about everyone I know who has balls—and a few women also. I am who I am. And here, give me your phone.” I hand it over and she puts herself into my contacts. “Text me the address, okay. I’ll be there whenever you’re training. After we can get lunch or something—after you shower, of course.”

  “Of course. Until then. Enjoy the fights.”

  “Until then,” she says. “And I will.”

  She heads back to her seat, and I head back to help my boy get ready for his fight. I have to get focused on helping him.

  But what I’m really thinking about is tomorrow, when I get to see Harper again.

  6

  Damien

  It’s good to be back to training.

  What really makes me happy is what makes most normal people unhappy—the grind of pushing myself through difficult circumstances, the smell of a gym, the difficulty of trying to do things that most people aren’t willing to do. That’s where I shine. Right now, just being healthy is enough to lift my spirits from where they were when I was injured.

  That, and fact that Harper is on her way to the gym right now.

  I can’t wait to see the look on these goons’ faces as the hottest thing on two legs walks in just to see me. Speaking of which, here she comes now.