A Savage Redemption (A Series of Savage Gentleman Book 3) Page 8

  I push through the crowd of fighters and coaches to find his locker room. I knock on the door and I hear “Come in!” from inside.

  Still, it’s a locker room full of guys, so I crack the door open and yell inside. “Are you all decent? I’m not going to walk into a room full of swinging dicks, am I?”

  That’s when I hear Damien’s voice. “Only if you want to. I’m never sure with you.”

  I push the door open, barely able to hold my laughter back. “How dare you. I’m not interested in any dick but yours, you know that. Oh, Jesus, I said that really loud, didn’t I?”

  Damien is getting his hand wraps taken off by Matt, and I swear the whole locker room stops and looks at me. I think I’m the only woman in here. “Actually,” he says. “You’ve been saying dicks a few times really loud. But no one in here is offended, if you were wondering.”

  I smile and run over to him. He still has his hand out but I wrap my arms around his body. “I’m so proud of you. I was worried about that cut.”

  “You and me both. I’m going to need stitches.”

  “So I guess a celebratory drink is out, huh?”

  “Delayed,” he says. “At least until I get out of the hospital. One way or the other, I’m seeing you later on. We need to celebrate.”

  I kiss him on his swollen lips. “I agree. Go get stitched up. Text me when you’re out and I’ll come over. We’ll celebrate with more than just a drink. Deal?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  I say my goodbyes and head out of the locker room. I’d like to be in my car on my way back to my place before the whole place empties out or it’ll take me an hour just to get out of the parking lot. I might already be too late. I get my laptop and all my stuff then head outside.

  As I walk to my car, I see Johnny across the lot. He’s still wearing that fucking belt—the one that should be on Damien’s waist, and he’s surrounded by his usual collection of goons. They seem to be talking a lot, heatedly. I don’t like the look of it at all—I know it has to do with Damien.

  20

  Damien

  Things are looking up.

  Got my stitches. Got my fight check. And, most importantly, I got the win I needed to get after Johnny. Now it’s just a matter of being offered that fight, accepting, training, and beating that dude into submission. And that’s just the start of my plans.

  From there, I’m hopefully going to get a call up to the UFC, but I’m not even thinking that far anymore. All I need to worry about is winning that championship, the rest will fall into place, especially if I make short and impressive work of Johnny.

  One thing at a time. For right now, I have a few weeks of rest. When you have cuts or injuries you have to take some mandatory time off before you’re allowed to fight again. A cut is nothing to mess around with—if I reopen it grappling or sparring it could delay me even more, so I’m taking the month off to just rest, recover, and enjoy my time.

  But, for a fight nerd like me, resting doesn’t mean sitting around eating Cheetos and watching Netflix—for me it means hanging around at the gym and helping out in any way that I can.

  I walk in the front door to a hero’s welcome—literally the room fills with the sound of applause, and all I feel is embarrassed, like someone getting Happy Birthday sung to them—there’s no choice but to stand there awkwardly until it’s over. Still, I remember that this is all love and support, and, even though it makes me a little uncomfortable, I love every one of them for it.

  I make eye contact with Lucas and some of the guys, who come over to me and shake my hand and congratulate me on a well-earned victory. I thank them all, one at a time, and then Lucas pulls me to the side.

  “Have you talked to Matt at all?” he asks.

  “No, why?”

  “I don’t know. He’s got this weird energy and I can’t really tell why. And you know him, he’s not the most expressive dude in the world. His house could have burned down ten minutes ago and we wouldn’t hear about it except to see it on the news. That’s just how he is.”

  “That’s true. What do you mean weird energy? How is he being weird?”

  “Just not himself. Usually his serious face is just that—but he seemed. . .”

  “What?”

  “Down,” Lucas tells me. “He seemed down. Like bummed out over something.”

  “That’s not like him at all. Intense, yes. Bummed out? It doesn’t make any sense, especially with the gym doing well and the two of us thriving right now. What does he have to be down about?”

  “I don’t know, maybe I’m misreading it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I guess you’ll get to see for yourself,” Lucas tells me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said to go see him when and if you got here—that he needed to talk to you about something. It didn’t sound good.”

  “Shit. I hope it’s not my fight with Johnny falling through. I hope that asshole isn’t ducking me.”

  “Even though I don’t hope that’s the case, I hope that’s all it is. Or something like that. He looked all fucked up.”

  “And you didn’t ask him why?”

  “Would you have?”

  “Probably not. But if he mopes his way around the office I’m going to tell him to just spit it out already. Mopey Matt is no fun.”

  “Alright, good luck man. Let me know after.”

  “Will do.”

  I go to Matt’s office. I’ve spent a lot of time in there for all sorts of reasons, but he’s never called for me before. It’s always him putting an arm around my shoulder and telling me to come see him after practice. It always felt warm—inviting—even when it was about something not going our way. But this feels more like I’m getting called into the principal’s office.

  I knock twice. Matt’s voice rings through the door. “Come in.”

  “Hey.” I peak my head in slowly, then the rest of my body follows after he waves me in. I sit where I always sit—in the right chair on the other side of his desk, and I see right away what Lucas was talking bout. “You alright, man?”

  He doesn’t answer, and that freaks me out more than a little bit. I ask again. “Matt? You having a stroke? What’s the matter? Lucas said you wanted to see me about something not good.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. I think he was just reading the look you have on your face right now. If that’s a good news face then we seriously need to work on your affect.” I’m trying to be light and playful, but I don’t get so much as a grin out of him. If anything, he looks even more serious than he did before. “Jesus, Matt, what is it? Is it the fight with Johnny? Did it fall through?”

  He nods in the affirmative, and my heart sinks in my chest. “Fuck!” I yell. “Why? Don’t tell me that little pussy is faking an injury just to delay me fighting him?”

  “Nope,” Matt says somberly. “That’s not why.”

  “Well good. I don’t think much of that prick, but I’d at least like to think that he’s a real fighter and wouldn’t run from me like that.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Damien. I mean that Johnny isn’t the reason that the fight is off. You are.”

  I’m a whole new level of confused. “Me? What are you talking about? Why would I be responsible for my not having a fight set up?”

  He leans in with his head down, slowly and painfully. “Because I just got off the phone with the commission.”

  I still don’t get it. “Yeah. And?”

  “And they called to inform me that my fighter tested positive for steroids.”

  If I thought my heart sank in my chest a minute ago, I clearly didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.

  21

  Damien

  I’m not sure what the hell just happened, but I don’t believe what I just heard. “What? Steroids? Matt, what the hell are you saying to me right now?”

  “I just got a call from John, the athletic director of the commission. They
say that you tested positive for synthetic testosterone. They want to overturn your fight to a no contest.”

  I’m living in my own personal episode of the MMA Twilight Zone right now. The world just turned upside down. “I know what you just said was in English, but I’m going to need you to say that to me again.”

  He does. I listen. I don’t believe it. “Wait, wait, wait. Jesus Christ, Matt, where do I even start?”

  He looks at me somberly. “You know where to start. I need to hear it from you.”

  “Excuse me? Hear what?”

  He gives me that fatherly look he wears so well. “You know what I mean. I need to hear you say it. Just once, and then we’ll never talk about it again.”

  I finally realize what he means. “Do you really?” I’m a little annoyed that he needs to hear the words I’m about to say, but I understand. This is a shady sport sometimes, filled with people who do crazy stuff to get ahead. Matt’s seen way more of it than I have.

  “Listen, I know you’re probably offended by me even saying that, and believe me kid, the last thing I want to do is kick you while you’re down. But I personally had to throw more than one guy out of this gym and refuse to train them when I found out that they were. . . enhancing their performance with more than just hard training. You now what I’m saying.”

  “I do, yeah.”

  “And the scary part is, with only a few exceptions, it was always guys that I would have sworn on a bible would never do something like that.”

  It’s the dark little ‘secret’ of our sport—of all sports, really, but especially ours. MMA has blown up in last decade, and, with that explosion has also come better athletes, better training, and a much higher caliber of fighter than we used to have back in the old days. That sounds like a good thing, and it is, but an unintended consequence of that has been guys trying to get an advantage any way they can. If hard work won’t do it, they always turn to pills and needles.

  “Matt, look at me, I did NOT take steroids. You have my word. I’d never disrespect my own body, this gym, or you to get a small edge. I swear to you. No bullshit.”

  For the first time since I walked in his office, Matt’s face softens. I can tell that he believes me, and he should—I’d never take that shit. “Good, kid. Good.”

  “But that makes this whole thing even crazier because I legit did not put any steroids into my body. There has to be some fuckery going on here. I can’t have that fight turned over. Not only will it mess up my title shot, it’ll label me a cheater forever. I’ll have to carry that reputation around whenever I fight. People will be saying that all of my past victories were because of steroids. It’s bad news, I need to clear my name.”

  Matt listens but I’m not sure what he can do about all this. “The one good thing John said was that there was very little detected.”

  “Very little?”

  “Yeah. Not that they have the most sophisticated testing over there, but, from what he told me, the lab said it was very low levels of the substance detected.”

  What does that mean? There shouldn’t be any of it in my system. “So, what do we do now, Matt? I’m starting to freak out a little.”

  I’m not kidding. For the first time in a while, I start to feel the symptoms of my anxiety build up again. I can feel my heartbeat going faster than I want it to—faster than it should be going just sitting here in an office, and my breaths are getting more and more shallow as I breathe faster. I shouldn’t be feeling like this, but, all of a sudden, I’m light-headed. Matt catches it and comes around to my side of the desk immediately.

  “Relax. Breathe. It’s okay.”

  The wave is starting to take over, everything is starting fade to black. I feel like I might pass out. “It’s not fucking okay, Matt. If this fight gets overturned, that could be it—the end of my career.”

  “Stop talking crazy, Damien. There’s no end unless you want there to be.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I’m freaking out. I’m. . .”

  That’s when I feel Matt’s fist go into my arm. Hard. It’s so forceful and unexpected that it moves me and almost knocks me out of my chair. That shit hurt. “Jesus, Matt, what the fuck?”

  “Sorry. I needed to snap you out of that panic, and I’m not going to punch you in the face.”

  “Fuck, man, you still have some power.”

  “Forget the punch. How do you feel?”

  “A little better. Still nervous but not like I’m about to pass out.”

  “Good,” he says. “Then it was a good punch. Now, take a few deep breaths with me.”

  That was one of the techniques Scott worked on with me. Three deep breaths. Slow your heart, he said, and your mind will follow. I take in as much air as I can, hold it a few seconds, then let it out with a big exhale. It works by the second breath.

  “Better?”

  “Better,” I say. “But still, what are we going to do?”

  “Here’s the situation. I made a few follow up calls. You have to play defense right now.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, as much as you don’t want to hear this, your fight with Johnny is on hold and a secondary concern right now. That can’t even happen until you find a way to clear your name. It’s like when a guy is losing a fight, lying on their back and getting punched. At that moment, the goal is survival, not winning. You can’t even think about winning until you address the situation you’re in—that’s you with this steroid thing. It has to be addressed before we worry about fighting for a title, or fighting in general.”

  He’s right about both things—I need to clear my name, and I really don’t want to be hearing this right now. I feel sick. “And how do I clear my name then?”

  “I’m not going to sugar coat it, it’s not an easy thing to do. You have the right to appeal their findings before you actually get a blemish on your record and the fight gets overturned. I already called, and the earliest you can get in front of the committee who oversees these things is two weeks from now. But, when that date comes, you have to provide actual evidence that would prove you didn’t take anything. That’s your only shot.”

  “How am I supposed to prove that I didn’t do something like this? That doesn’t even make any sense. It’s not like a crime where I could say I was innocent because I was in a different place when the crime happened. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “I know. I said it wasn’t going to be easy, but that’s the only chance you have. Otherwise, it’s going to go the way it’s going to go.”

  I stand up out of nowhere. I’m feeling bad again and I need to move my body. “I have to get out of here. Right now.”

  “Damien, wait.”

  But it’s too late. I’m already out the door, moving my feet as fast as they’ll carry me. I walk out of his office, past most of guys training, and I don’t even make eye contact with Lucas.

  “Damien!” I hear him yell, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

  I run outside and just start walking for what must be ten minutes. Eventually, I stop a few blocks away, my heart pounding in my chest as I think about the end of my career. I look up and see the awning that’s on the building in front of me.

  Ferdy’s Bar. I could use a drink right now.

  22

  Harper

  I don’t know why he’s not answering my texts, but it’s concerning me. I know I’m being paranoid, but I worry about him ever since his assault. I keep checking my phone like a psycho, making sure my settings are on vibrate and ring—which they are—but really, I’m just grasping at straws for any reason he may not have gotten back to me. I hope he’s okay.

  We were supposed to hang out at his place, but since I never heard back I’m just on my couch, chilling by myself, scrolling through all the icons on all of my streaming services. I don’t want to watch TV, I want to know where Damien is.

  I text one last time then put my phone down and try in vain to read a book I’ve been meaning to read for forever. No su
rprise that I can’t concentrate. I even go so far as to text Lucas to ask if he’s seen Damien. Lucas tells me that he saw him earlier in the day when he stormed out of the gym, and that there’s been no word since. His answer doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, now I’m even more worried.

  It’s nine o’clock. Lucas said that Damien left the gym around two or two thirty, he couldn’t remember which. It doesn’t matter, that’s still way too many hours for him to be missing without contacting someone.

  Then, all of a sudden, I hear a loud pounding at my door. It’s so hard and abrupt that it scares me. It can’t be a thief, I think to myself—thieves don’t knock. A few seconds later the same loud knocks assault my door. I finally jump up and look through the peep hole. As soon as I see him, I can’t get the locks off fast enough. “Where the hell have. . . woah.” I stop my angry girlfriend lecture because I just got hit with a funky wave of old-booze smell that’s overwhelming. “Are you drunk?”

  “That’s an understatement. I need to sit down.”

  He stumbles his way over to my couch and falls down—literally. I thought seeing him would make me less worried but it’s actually the opposite right now. “Where have you been?” I ask. I know enough from dealing with my brother that trying to have a rational discussion with a drunk person is pretty much useless, but I want to know what’s going on. His eyes start to roll in his head. “Damien!” I yell.

  “Jesus, what is it?”

  “What is it? Oh, I don’t know—how about you missing for like seven hours? You not answering my texts or calls. You missing the plans we had tonight. Pick whichever one you like the best and we’ll talk about that.”

  My sarcasm is falling on drunk ears. He’s barely conscious and the smell of him is making me a little nauseous. He needs a shower and a detox. But what I really want to know is what caused this.