The Savage Sinner

by Harlan, Christopher

  Master Splinter isn’t a hugging kind of guy. In fact, I can count on one hand the amount of times that he’s hugged me—this is the third, and it feels great. The first was after I won my very first fight with him, the second was when I got back from Thailand, and now.

  “Feels good to be here. Feels even better to know I have a week off.”

  “We need to talk about that. Come to my office.”

  We head back to his office, and I’m immediately curious as to what he’s talking about. “Alright, you got me with your clickbait sentence—I’ll bite—what do we need to talk about. Something good?”

  “Something very good.”

  “I’m in,” I joke. “Tell me.”

  “I spoke with the promoter.”

  “Since last night?”

  “Yup. He called me on my cell about two hours after the fight. I was really surprised.”

  “What did he want?” I ask.

  “First, he was really impressed by what you did last night. He’s a Glover fan, in fairness, and he thinks what you did to him was something that was really special.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “It’s more than nice,” Matt says. “It’s a game changer.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that, even though you’ve only had one fight, the fight you had has opened up some opportunities. He wants to leapfrog you.”

  Fighters are ranked. All organizations do it now, including the UFC. In modern MMA, which is less like the outlawed activity it used to be and more of a legitimate sport, typically fighters fight the guy above them in the ranks until they ultimately work their way up to a title shot. Leap frogging means that you get to skip the line a little bit. Now Matt’s really peaked my curiosity.

  “No shit? I didn’t even think I was ranked right now because I haven’t been active.”

  “You’re not,” Matt agrees. “I asked. But Glover was ranked #3, and the promoter is doing some MMA math that works in your favor. He figures that if you did that to the number three guy. . .”

  “Then I take over that spot?”

  “Even better. According to his thinking, you’re now the number two guy in the weight class, and you know what that means?”

  I know exactly what it means. It means that he wants to offer me a number one contender fight. That’s essentially a title eliminator fight—the winner gets a shot at Johnny Altino.

  “When does he want me to go back in?” I ask.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Matt answers.

  “Oh fuck, don’t tell me another two-week turnaround.”

  “Not that bad, but not ideal either. He wants the fight in six weeks.”

  “Okay. I guess beggars can’t be choosers.” Six weeks isn’t bad, but it’s not ideal either. What it really means is. . . “So I guess I’m not taking that week off.”

  “Let’s call it two days. We start camp Tuesday.”

  Fuck. I was really looking forward to some time off. I guess it’s gonna be dim sum and then back to the grind. “Could be worse.”

  “Worse?” Matt says. “Check your attitude, man. You had one fight and now you’re one more away from the welterweight title—and, as you know from Lucas, a title in this organization has some real implications for the future.”

  Matt’s right. I need to think about this the right way—six weeks or no six weeks, I know that I’m going to put whoever is in front of me to sleep, and that I’m going to be the best fighter in the world. No doubt. It’s time for business.

  “Absolutely. I’m psyched, and thanks for helping make it happen.”

  “It’s not set yet—they’re waiting for a call from me, that’s why I needed you here face to face. So, what do I tell them?”

  “You’ll tell them ‘fuck yeah’.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear. I’ll make the call. You go enjoy the rest of your day. Rest up, get rejuvenated, and get ready to come back and work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I leave his office and grab Lucas. “I just got a title eliminator in six weeks.”

  “Holy shit. You ready for that?”

  “Born ready. Born fucking ready. I’m psyched. But I’m going to need your help man. I need you to give me some good looks in training. The guy I’m fighting fights in your style—he’s a grappler.”

  “Funny you mention training. I’ve got some news also.”

  “Well spill it. What’s going on?”

  “Before you got here, I had a meeting with Matt in his office also. Sean Shelby called.”

  “Holy crap, man, our little gym is getting calls from one of the UFC matchmakers—that’s pretty cool. What did he say?”

  “I got what I expected—a last minute fight against a lower ranked guy—some Brazilian—but it’s my first actual UFC fight. This feels legit.”

  “It is legit. Holy shit, that’s amazing.” It really is. I couldn’t be prouder. “Man, this is turning into the last-minute-fight gym. How soon is it?”

  “A month,” he says. “Just a little under four weeks.”

  Now Lucas and I both have fights within two weeks of each other, which means that Matt’s attention is going to have to be split between the two of us, which shouldn’t be a problem as long as we have a good schedule. “Not terrible.”

  “That’s the story of our fights—not terrible, not ideal—but we always fucking win, don’t we?”

  “We sure do.”

  “There’s one more catch to the fight.”

  “Catch?”

  “Matt and I looked the guy up because I’d never heard of him. Apparently, he’s a Brooklyn Academy guy. He’s from originally from Rio, but he’s trained a few miles from here for the past six months. So it looks like New York versus Brooklyn.”

  “Now you really have to win.”

  This rivalry between gyms is heating up. Between my potential fight with Johnny, the existing hatred between their gym owner and Matt, and now Lucas signed to fight one of their guys in his UFC debut, this is turning into a real showdown between training centers.

  “Alright,” he says. “We need to make a pact right now—help each other out for our fights. We have a lot of good guys here, but no one as good as the two of us. We need to be each other’s best sparring partners.”

  What he’s saying makes a lot of sense. Instead of me seeing it as taking away from both of us, this could actually help us both. Leave it to Lucas to look on the bright side of things. “You’re right. We’re gonna dominate.”

  “I wanted to ask you something else.”

  “Yeah, man, name it.”

  “I need you in my corner for the fight. I know coming to Vegas might take a day or two away from your own training, but I really want you there for my UFC debut. You were there for the fight that got me in in the first place, and it wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t there for my debut. What do you say?”

  I don’t even need a second to think. “Are you kidding me? It’s my honor.”

  24

  Harper

  They’re starting to know me by name here.

  That’s not a good thing.

  I got the call right after Damien left to go see Matt this morning. It’s not the best way to start your Sunday, but I’m sadly starting to get used to it.

  Here I am at the 23rd precinct. I sign in and talk to the desk clerk. “Hi, Harper. He’s in the holding cell.”

  There it is—first name basis with a bunch of cops. An officer who apparently doesn’t know me as Harper, but who I definitely recognize, leads me back to the holding cell. That’s when I see him.

  “Hey, sis. I’m sorry.”

  When we were kids. our mom used to pack us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday for lunch—old school brown bag kind of stuff, and when I say every day I mean every single day, without fail. She worked long hours and didn’t want to have to think about what to make us each night, so she made the same thing all the time. By the time we hit fourth grade the sight of a P
B&J made us nauseous—it still does. Now, hearing Michael say ‘I’m sorry’ has that same effect—I’m sick of it in all the ways that you can be sick of something.

  “It’s fine. C’mon, let me take you home.”

  He has a cut just above his eye. The mark on his cheek is finally healing up. I’m sick of looking at him like this. This has to stop.

  I do all the things a good sister is supposed to do in these situations—accept his apologies, sign everything I need to sign, then take him back home while he acts like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

  We manage to not say a single word the entire trip, and that’s just fine by me. When we get inside, I tell him to take a shower because he doesn’t smell very good. He does it without any argument.

  I sit down and check my phone. There’s a sweet little text from Damien with a picture of dim sum and it makes me smile. I need a smile right now.

  I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

  25

  Damien

  The Next Morning

  I meet Harper at the place in Queens.

  You know an ethnic restaurant is legit when it’s filled with people of that ethnic group. This is a Chinese place where Chinese people come to eat authentic food, and now it’s also the site of my second date with Harper. I technically ‘owed’ her this meal because I won, but I was going to bring her regardless. The fact that I won what’s probably the most important fight of my life is just icing on the cake.

  “It’s really crowded here.”

  “Haven’t you come here before?” I ask.

  “For dinner with my family a few times, but it was never this crowded. I’ve never come specifically for dim sum. I’ve always wanted to, though.”

  “Apparently, so does everyone else in Queens.”

  There’s a fifteen-minute wait, so I put our names down and we step just outside the place onto a busy Queens street. Harper doesn’t seem like her normal happy self. She’s not talking as much, and her usual sarcasm and energy just isn’t there. Maybe she’s just tired.

  “I wanted to tell you something.” She doesn’t seem like she even hears me at first, she’s just looking off into the distance. “Harper.”

  “What?” she says, turning around and looking at me finally.

  “I was saying that I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m a little distracted. Tell me.”

  I don’t ask her what’s going on because I assume that if she wanted me to know she’d tell me, so I decide to tell her my news to distract her. “No problem. Matt got me another fight.”

  “Wow, that’s really soon, no?”

  “Yeah. But I did my medicals yesterday, and I’m cleared. I didn’t take any damage, or get a concussion, or anything that would stop me from getting cleared. Just a few bumps and bruises, but I’ll be ready to go six weeks from now.”

  “Six weeks is really soon.”

  “It is really soon. And on top of that, Lucas has his first UFC fight in a month and he wants me to help corner him.”

  “Oh my God, that’s amazing. Where’s the fight?”

  “Vegas, baby, Vegas.”

  “So, wait. He has a fight in a month and you have one two weeks after that?”

  “Right.”

  “So you don’t get to hang out with me this week, huh?”

  “Are you kidding?” I tell her. “Of course we’re hanging out, it’s just mostly going to be at the gym. But we can go out afterwards, I just need to watch what I eat.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m eating all those dumplings alone in a few minutes.”

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t do you like that. I’m on my diet after dim sum. That shit smelled delicious.”

  “Good. Who are you fighting?”

  “The number one contender in my division.”

  “Donald?” she asks. Sometimes I forget how deep she is in the fight world. I hardly need to explain anything to her because she already knows.

  “Donald.”

  “Damn, he’s good.” She covers her mouth like she’s embarrassed that she said that, but she doesn’t need to be. She’s right. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? He’s a total badass. That’s why he’s number one. But I’m gonna baptize him—him and everyone else who’s standing in my way to that title.”

  “Baptize?” She furrows her brow.

  “It’s a term I’ve adopted from one of my favorite fighters—the baddest motherfucker on the planet.”

  “Oh, you mean. . .”

  “Gamebred. Jorge Masvidal.” Masvidal is one of my favorite fighters on the planet. He came up the ranks for years, always being on the bad end of decisions. But eventually, last year, he had one of the greatest runs in the history of the sport. Starting with his knockout of one of the hottest up and comers in his division, he went on to score the fastest knockout in UFC history. I was a fan before, but the man became my idol after that.

  “I like it. Gamebred is a beast. He’ll be UFC champion one day. You baptize all the guys you need to. You know I’ll be there.”

  “I know.”

  I lean over and kiss her. The feeling of her lips lights my body on fire, even standing here on a random crowded street in Queens. I feel bad that something is clearly bothering her, though. Maybe she’ll tell me inside.

  We talk for another five minutes or so before going inside and finally getting seated. The place is buzzing with energy and the smell of some of the most amazing food I’ve ever seen, all served in those steamer baskets. I’m trying to pay attention to Harper but I’m distracted by all the food on all the tables around me.

  “How good does all of that look?”

  “God, I’m fucking starving,” I answer. “I’ve been watching my weight so carefully for the last few weeks that I need to go a little crazy. I’m going to eat the shit out of everything they bring.”

  “See, I told you this was a good idea. You can for sure thank me later on.”

  “Oh, I will,” I promise. “As many times as you’d like to be thanked.”

  “You’re so dirty,” she says, looking at me flirtatiously for the first time since we got here. “And I love it. Never stop.”

  “Not an issue, don’t worry.”

  “Good.”

  We start to get our food—a lot of dumplings—and I start scarfing them down like I haven’t had a real meal in a long time. I guess I haven’t. It’s so good.

  Still, I can’t help but notice that Harper still doesn’t seem like herself. She’s not completely out of it—but she’s definitely got something on her mind that she’s not talking about. She seems distant—distracted, and it goes on for long enough that I decide to just ask her.

  “Something’s on your mind.”

  “Huh?” she says, giving me that distracted look again.

  “Whatever’s bothering you, you can tell me about it you know. You’ve listened to enough of my childhood drama. Least I can do is return the favor. What’s bothering you?”

  “What makes you think something’s bothering me?”

  I look her right in the eye. “Because it is. It’s plain as the nose on your face, and if you tell me, maybe I can help.”

  “Wait, did you just tell me that I had a big nose?”

  “I might have, but totally didn’t mean it that way.” That makes her laugh. She’s so beautiful when she smiles. “Now tell me, it’s okay.”

  She takes that long, deep breath that everyone takes when they need to get something off of their chest that they don’t want to talk about. I give her the time she needs to talk—spending the silence shoving more dumplings into my mouth as I wait. Finally, she opens her mouth.

  “Remember that time after our first interview when I said I couldn’t meet you the next day because I was taking my brother to the doctor for his back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that wasn’t true. I mean, it was sort of true. The doctor part, at least.”

  “Okay. So where
did you take him, then?”

  “I took him to a doctor, just not for his back. It was someone that I found through some. . . back channels.”

  I’m confused. She’s being super vague and I can’t tell why. Obviously, something is going on with her brother, but she won’t say what. “Back channels? I’m sorry, Harper, I’m not totally following you.”

  “Don’t be sorry, I’m not giving you much to follow.”

  “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it might feel better to just get it out.”

  She takes another epic deep breath before continuing. “What I mean is, I used my connections in the fight world to reach out to some ex fighters and their families about a certain type of doctor for my brother. They all gave me the same name, so I drove him out to see the person the other day.”

  Fighters and their families? What’s going on? “Alright,” I say. “What kind of doctor was it?”

  “A neurologist. Apparently, he’s one of the best in the state.”

  “Neurologist? But why. . . oh.”

  I stop myself because I know the answer before I finish the question. I’ve seen her brother fight. He was good—he is good, I guess. But, in all the fights I saw, even the ones that he won, he took a lot of damage. Some of those victories were hard to watch, they were so bloody.

  “Yeah. My brother Michael is showing serious signs of CTE.”

  “Brain trauma?” I ask. She nods. It’s the dirty little secret of all combat sports—the thing everyone talks about with NFL players but not a lot of people in the fight world acknowledge. With boxers, they used to call it being ‘punchy’ —now it has a name: Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.

  “Yeah. That’s actually why he hasn’t fought in a long time. He can’t get cleared with his medicals, not even in those shady underground amateur promotions.”

  “What are his symptoms?” I ask.

  “Name it,” she says. “My loving older brother is irritable, moody, he can’t concentrate on a book or movie, and he’s really, really explosive with his anger. Sometimes he goes zero to one hundred for no reason at all. It can be really scary.”