A Savage Redemption (A Series of Savage Gentleman Book 3) Page 13

  The first images everyone had of mixed martial arts was the spectacle of different sized men brawling like they would in a bar—and you know what they say about first impressions. Those days were crazy, but that’s not how things are anymore. Today the sport is an actual sport—legal in all fifty states, regulated by state athletic commissions with rules and regulations, and is currently one of the most popular sports in the United States.

  But stereotypes die hard, and a lot of people still hold them about both the sport and the athletes themselves. When I tell people what I do for a living they look at me sideways—like I might be a threat to them, like I’m a psycho, like I might throw them down and try to break one of their limbs. But, like I said, I’m not a violent guy. There are too many differences between professional fighters and violent people to even list, but one of the biggest ones is that fighters have a context to their violence—a switch that they can turn on or off so that they can express their violence in an agreed upon contest.

  Take me for example. As soon as a contract is signed and my money is guaranteed, I’ll fight any man on this planet. Once me and that other man agree to throw down and test our skills against one another, it’s on. I abandon the normal part of me—the one with sympathy and emotions, and I replace it with the version of myself that’s necessary to fight another man in a cage. And then, when the contest is over, I’m back to being me. My opponent and I shake hands, hug, tell each other ‘good fight’, and our corners—our coaches and trainers— shake hands with one other.

  Inside that octagon I have no fear, no guilt, no conscience, and I pray that my opponent doesn’t either. I don’t want his mercy, or his concern for my well being—I only want to test myself using one simple question: can my violence defeat his? If the answer is yes, then I’m the man—the alpha—the badass motherfucker who no one can touch. And if the answer is no, then I don’t deserve any of this—not the fame I seek, or the recognition I want, or the women who always hang around the sport.

  The women. Let’s stop and talk about them for a minute.

  No matter how many women tell you they don’t like fighting, what they do love is a man who can fight. Sure, some women are into the sport, but most aren’t. It’s a rare woman who’ll sit down ringside where you can practically feel the beads of sweat and blood hitting you. But what they really like—even the ones who pretend not to—is a man like me. An alpha. A badass. A guy who can kick the shit out of their man without breaking a sweat. A man like me has no trouble meeting women, and the more I win inside that octagon, the easier it gets to meet them. And I win—a lot.

  My dream, like all fighters, is to make it to the UFC—an organization that has so much name recognition that now everyone in the country knows what it is. It’s such a monolith that people say UFC when they mean MMA. More than one woman has asked me—so you do that UFC stuff? Of course, I nod and say yes because that shit is a panty dropper, but the truth is I haven’t made it to the big stage yet. It’s my dream—why I train, why I sacrifice, why I get my ass kicked in order to get better.

  That’s why tonight’s fight means everything.

  I don’t like to hype my fights up too much, but there’s a special guest sitting in the audience tonight, and if you knew who he was, you’d understand why I’m more nervous than usual for this fight. My coach called me into his office at our gym a few days ago to break the news to me.

  “Lucas, get in here when you’re done with your roll.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I was just playing with my training partner—letting him think he had the better of me before I reversed the position and submitted him in seconds. After he tapped out, I jumped up and went into the back.

  “What is it, Master Splinter?”

  “Are you ever going to get tired of calling me that?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Only when I become a master myself. Then I guess we’ll both be masters, so I’ll just call you Splinter.”

  “You can just call me Matt. You know, since it’s my name and all.”

  “Sure, I could,” I joked, “but what fun would that be?”

  “My name doesn’t have to be fun, you know?”

  “So, what’s going on Master Splinter Matt?”

  “You can be such a huge dick sometimes, you know that?”

  “If you weren’t my coach this would be the part where I told you ‘that’s what she said.’”

  Matt’s a cool guy—old school in some ways, like when it comes to basic student-teacher respect, but still a cool, relatively young guy in his mid forties.

  “And if you weren’t my student, that would be the part where I died laughing. I didn’t even realize when I said it.”

  “I know,” I tell him. “That’s why it was funny.”

  Matt broke character for a few seconds and laughs hysterically with me.

  “So, what did you need, Coach?”

  “Ah, so we’re back to being serious about your career? Good.”

  “My career?” I asked.

  “Look, the last thing I want to do is put more pressure on you for Saturday’s fight. But this is kind of like when you’re a chef and there’s a critic for the New York Times coming to your restaurant for dinner. Know what I’m referring to?”

  “No way. You don’t mean?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  My mouth hung open. “Sean is going to be there?”

  “The one and only.”

  Sean Graham is the matchmaker and talent scout for the UFC. He’s the gatekeeper of dreams, the man who makes all of the decisions for who goes onto the big show and who doesn’t. Sean is known for going around to local organizations and looking for talent to sign. If you’re good—and especially if you’re a champion in a smaller division, your chances of getting in are all but guaranteed. My organization, New York Cage Fighting Championships, has had three guys in as many years get into the UFC. One of them, Kane Koz, made a run for the lightweight championship last year and lost by a razor thin decision. He was our ‘Rocky’ story—his poster still hangs in the back locker room.

  Right now, I’m the number one contender in my division—light heavyweight, which is 205 pounds—which means that if I win tonight, I’m a champion, and the odds of getting a backstage visit from Sean go up exponentially. And if I have a spectacular performance—like a knockout or submission finish—he might even offer me a UFC contract on the spot.

  Now I’m backstage, warming up in the dressing room as the co-main event fight is going down. I passively watch it on the TV as I do some light sparring and Jiu Jitsu drills, and the roars of the crowd builds my anticipation of getting out there myself and having the performance of a lifetime.

  A submission—a rear naked choke—ends the fight, and that only means one thing.

  It’s five minutes until I’m up.

  I do a few drills to pass the time, so I don’t have to think about how nervous I am, and I keep my sweat up so I’m not cold when I get out there. By the time my muscles are warm and ready to put a hurting on the guy across from me in the cage, I get the call.

  “You’re up, Lucas.”

  My music starts playing—Rage Against the Machine’s Killing in the Name—and I walk to the octagon, my team behind me. I’ve never been so nervous for a fight. I don’t feel like myself. Normally I’m cocky—sure of myself—ready to beat the guy across from me to a bloody pulp, but I’m not feeling that right now. I’m not feeling like ‘The Ghost’ — I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time—like I’m out of my league.

  What makes this match even more exciting is the fact that we’re both undefeated. My opponent—the light heavyweight champion of the New York Cage Fight Championships, Wes Finley, has an undefeated record of 9–0, and I have a record of 11–0. They titled tonight’s event ‘Someone’s O has to go!’ I plan on being Wes’ first defeat, but as I see him walking to the cage my heart is in my throat.

  Our names are announced, and the fight begins. . .

  The
Savage Sinner

  (A Series of Savage Gentleman Book 2)

  * * *

  My name Damien “The Sinner” Reyes.

  I’ve been called every name in the book by my long list of haters: cocky, hard-headed, impulsive, arrogant. But there’s another name I like to go by—the best MMA fighter in the world. You’ve never heard of me, but one day you’ll know my name.

  I was broken when I met her, mending mental and physical wounds, and that’s when Harper approached me, wanting to tell my story to the world. There was only one problem—she was the hottest woman I’d ever seen in my life. Why was that a problem? She wanted a profile for her blog, and all I wanted was to see her naked. It was doomed to never work out. But then one night I asked her to go to dinner with me, and everything changed between us.

  I though it would be smooth sailing, but then her unknown past stepped between us, threatening not only the two of us, but standing in the way of my personal dreams. If I can overcome my obstacles, then I know I’m destined for greatness. There are only three things I want now—Harper by my side, a contract with the UFC, and for everyone in the world to know that I’m the most Savage Sinner in the world.

  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 th
ey’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.”

  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.”