The Savage Gentleman

by Harlan, Christopher

  “It’s fine,” I tell her. “Ummm. . . I guess saying that ‘it’s complicated’ would be the best way to describe it. Don’t get me wrong, I have great parents. Been married forever, grew up in suburbia, went to decent schools, all that. They took me to Matt’s gym because I got into a lot of trouble and had some issues in middle and high school. They were desperate and thought the discipline of martial arts would work better than them lecturing me all the time. They were right about that.”

  “But?”

  “How’d you know there’d be a but?”

  “Magic,” she jokes. “But I know there is one. Tell me.”

  “But. . . they weren’t so thrilled when I took to it so well that I wanted to do it for a living. They didn’t like, kick me out of the house or anything, but they weren’t calling up my grandparents to brag either. I think they thought that fighting was just going to settle me down until I got to college, and teach me lessons so that I wouldn’t get into any more trouble like I had been getting into. I don’t think either of my parents even considered that I’d do it full time for money. But they’re used to it now.”

  “And how far can you take this?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, not understanding her question.

  She smiles. “If you could push a button right now and have the career path you wanted, what would it look like?”

  “Are you interviewing me for a magazine article?” We both laugh.

  “Sorry. I’m a teacher, we ask a lot of questions.”

  “God, I used to hate my teachers. Almost all of them.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. That was a while ago. If I had teachers like you I might not have been such a little shit in school.”

  “Awww. I teach younger grades though, so if I’d had you in class you would have been like eight or so.”

  “I was a really mature eight-year-old. I still would’ve thought you were hot. But let me answer you. If I could push a button, I’d be in the UFC. I’d be in a training camp for my first fight in their light heavyweight division, and I’d have my moment—that moment I’ve always dreamed of.”

  “Which moment?”

  “Where they play my music and call my name in the back. I walk out with my team behind me to adoring fans, cameras in my face, and cheers so deafening that I can’t even hear myself think. I see my friends and family in the audience as I make the walk. Then I put in my mouthpiece, hug my team, and step into the octagon as my name is called out for everyone watching on TV to hear. . .”

  I trail off. I don’t even realize that I’ve stopped speaking because I get caught up in the imagery in my head. It’s a bittersweet thing to picture because it should have happened already. When I come back to reality Mila’s looking at me sweetly, not saying a word, just watching me fantasize.

  “You’ll get there,” she says. “You’re really good. You have a crazy triangle choke and a great left jab. If you can use those tools, and your defense, you should win against Jason no problem.”

  It’s hard to shock me. I’ve seen, heard, and even done it all. But I look at Mila like she just turned into an alien right in front of my face. “Wait,” I say, smiling. “What the hell? What?” I don’t even have words to ask what I want to ask, so I just keep repeating “what?” as she starts to laugh.

  “I did a little research,” she informs me. “Okay, I did a lot of research.”

  “On me?” I ask.

  “On a little of everything. You. Your fights. At least the ones I could find on YouTube. On fighting stuff, in general. Matt has an online tutorial series.”

  “Yeah, mostly on Jiu Jitsu techniques, but some striking stuff is on there too. You watched those?”

  “I watched like three of them. I started to get confused, but I kind of understood the triangle one.”

  “Look at you! That’s a pretty basic move but it’s a little complicated if you don’t know Jiu Jitsu. You figured it out?”

  “I wouldn’t say that I figured it out,” she laughs. “But I understand the basic idea. You showed me a closed guard when we had our first lesson. It kind of went from there. I might need a refresher.”

  “Anytime. It’s one of my favorite moves. I’ve won a few fights by submitting guys who didn’t see my set up coming.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to tell when you’re coming. Unless you shout it out of course.”

  “I like to shout it out.”

  Here we go again—from fighting to fucking—and now my mind is mush. The best mush possible. If I ever write my autobiography that’s a catchy title—‘From Fighting to Fucking.’ I’m so corny. I smile at the joke in my head.

  “I know you do.”

  We stop for a second and order our coffees from the waitress. It’s a beautiful day in early summer. The city is buzzing with human traffic, and the smells of the city are all around us. I love it here. And being with the hottest girl I’ve ever met isn’t a bad way to spend the afternoon. I just have to make sure I get my ass to practice on time.

  “So how much trouble did you get in?” she asks. “About missing practice.”

  “I wouldn’t call it trouble. I mean, I’m a grown man and so is Matt, and that was kind of his approach to the whole situation. I know what to do, and I know what not to do. He pretty much told me that if I miss again there are going to be some much more serious consequences.”

  “Consequences?”

  “Like losing my training partners. Some of them fly in or drive pretty far just to do a few rounds with me. Most of them are up-and-coming fighters themselves with the same dreams I have. When I miss, I’m messing up their training too. I get it.”

  “Is it me?” she asks. “I know you weren’t planning this thing between us. Neither of us were. Is it better to lay off while you’re training for a fight?”

  I wasn’t expecting that question. I’ve asked myself the same thing, but I always felt guilty about thinking it. I like this girl, a lot, and the more time I’m around her the more that feeling grows. But I also have the opportunity of a lifetime sitting right in front of me, only a few weeks away. I don’t know how to answer her. I think about it—maybe a little too long for her comfort, but I want to give it some thought. Finally, I know what the answer is.

  “No,” I tell her. “Fuck no. Being with someone incredible like you isn’t a bad thing. It’s me, I’m just not used to it.”

  “I’m not used to it, either. And also, that might be the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me.”

  “It’s true. I just need to be better with my time. If we’re together, I have to make sure I don’t over sleep or something stupid like that. I can’t have anything like that happen leading up to a title fight that could get me that UFC contract.”

  “We’ll make sure. And I love being with you. But that also means not screwing up your dreams. We’ll make it work, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  The waitress brings our coffees and I gulp mine down a little fast. “What do you have going on after this?”

  “Gonna meet Holly and Sophie. Do some shopping. Maybe some window shopping since I’m on a fixed budget and all.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I actually have to get going. I have practice.”

  “Oh, then go for sure. Text me later on.”

  “I will.”

  I stand up and hug her. It’s everything in my power not to get a full on chubby right there in the café as she presses her body into mine. That would not be a good look at all. I pull back and we kiss.

  “Enjoy practice,” she says with her cute smile.

  I walk away, happier than I’ve been in a while, and it’s a happiness I didn’t expect to ever come. I could get used to that.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mila

  Lucas turns to leave, and I steal a quick glance at his ass as he walks away. I feel like a guy when I do that, but who cares. I feel better than I have in a long time, except for one thing—I haven’t been honest with him. Not
completely honest, anyhow. He doesn’t know about one of the most important aspects of my recent past, and I feel like I’m lying to him every time I see him. It’s bothering me.

  I didn’t care at first because I was just really attracted to him—there wasn’t a whole lot more going on. But the more we hang out and the more we learn about one another, the more I have some real feelings for him, on top of thinking that he’s the hottest guy ever.

  I have therapy in an hour. I’m going to talk to Dr. Chase about this whole thing and see what he has to say about it. The subway to take me uptown is only a three block walk from the café, but I have to move my ass. He left money for the bill, like the savage gentleman that he is, so I take my last sip before heading to the station.

  There are people everywhere, and moving around in Manhattan feels like you’re an animal in a herd. I get a little anxious being around all these strangers, especially when they’re touching me, but I try to be brave—to remember that I’m the strong person Lucas reminded me I am—that I’m not some victim waiting to be taken advantage of. I’m a strong woman, and this is good practice to remind me of that.

  I walk two blocks without any anxiety, and I’m really proud of myself. Even though people are talking and walking all around me, I just keep moving my feet until I’m almost at the station. That’s when I hear my phone go off. I reach into my bag and pull it out. The number shows up restricted, but instead of sending it to voicemail I pick up.

  “Hello?” I say, stepping to the side of all the traffic. “Who’s this?”

  What I hear on the other end of the phone sends chills through my entire body. Anxiety doesn’t even begin to describe what I feel. When I hang up, I fall to the ground, like a crazy person, and stare off into the distance. The tears come next, and they’re uncontrollable.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lucas

  Thank God I got here in time.

  Part of me loves training as much as I love fighting.

  I’ve been here for an hour now, and my mind is totally focused. Today is no gi grappling, which is when we do wrestling and Jiu Jitsu, but either bare chested or with rash guards—preferably with rash guards. I got a staph infection once from some dude who was visiting from a gym where they didn’t believe in showers—shit almost killed me because I had no idea that I had it until I had to be rushed to the hospital. Now ‘no gi’ really means ‘rash guards.’ Luckily Matt is nuts with sanitation and keeping the mats clean.

  As I’m rolling with one of the lighter weight guys, John, I start to really get into the groove. You reach a place in training where technique becomes incidental. All the things you learned don’t have rehearsed sequences, and your mind doesn’t think in terms of steps. At that point you’re just in a flow state, and your body moves without your brain requiring any thought to make it do so. I’m not totally there yet, but it’s coming along nicely.

  I like to practice getting out of bad positions, just in case I get into them on fight night. It’s true that my opponent, Jason, never met a performance enhancing drug that he didn’t like, but he’s also a great fighter without all that crap running through his body. He’s medaled in the World Jiu Jitsu Championships a few times, including this past year, in all different weight classes. The kid’s no joke on the ground, so my submission game—both offense and defense—needs to be strong.

  John and I do a few full rolls with me getting the better of him twice, submitting him with an arm triangle and a knee bar. The third time we went until time was up, but that’s mostly because I need to get my cardio up to fight shape. But I’ll take it. If I can hang—and even submit a world champion grappler, I have a good chance against Jason.

  After our last roll, we shake hands and I grab some water. I don’t think I have any sweat left to give. Grappling is the ultimate work out—it works muscles that you didn’t know you had. And when you’re finished, you feel dead tired and full of energy at the same time. Right now, I’m full of energy, but I need to rehydrate. Matt comes over after the roll.

  “You’re looking better,” he tells me. “Your defense is great, and your killer instinct is coming back. As soon as you saw that arm triangle you dove on it. It was perfect. That’s what we need against Jason—if it comes to that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Preferably, I’d like to beat him standing. He’s not a great striker, and your boxing and Muay Thai is much better than his.”

  “And my Jiu Jitsu?”

  “Is good enough to survive. You might be able to submit him, but he’s never been tapped out before in an MMA fight—only at grappling tournaments, and only by the very best in the world. You remember what GSP says about fighting?”

  GSP is the acronym for George ‘Rush’ St. Pierre—one of the greatest fighters, if not the best fighter, to ever live. I used to watch his interviews obsessively, and I’ve seen his fights so many times that I could practically tell you every move he’s ever done in that octagon. He became the best not just because he had amazing skills—which he did—but also because he had one of the best minds in the game. He fought smart. He was never interested in looking tough, or proving anything to anyone. He just wanted to win, and in all of his fights he put himself in positions to win.

  “I know,” I answer.

  “Tell me. I want to hear the words.”

  “Basically, that you fight where you’re strong and your opponent is weak, not the other way around. That gives you the best chance to win.”

  “Correct. And that strategy served him pretty well, I’d say. If it’s good enough for the great GSP, it’s good enough for Lucas “The Ghost” Esparza. Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pride will get you hurt. We want to win. We want to get into the UFC with a championship belt around our waists.”

  This is why he’s Master Splinter, and why knuckleheads like me need head coaches to do the thinking for us sometimes. Most fighters are hard headed people—we believe that we’re the best on the planet, and that no one is stronger or tougher than us. That’s why we fight. If we didn’t believe that then we’d never get this far to begin with. But the flip side of that coin is that our self belief can become stupidity real quick. I don’t want to fight where he’s weak and I’m strong—I want to go where he’s strongest and prove that I’m even better.

  That’s my ego.

  Those are the moments where I tell humility to fuck off.

  That might also be the reason that I’m not a champion right now.

  I’m an arrogant prick in the octagon, but I’m also a pretty self-reflective guy when I’m not trying to kill another man for money. The fact of the matter is I didn’t just ‘get caught’ in my last fight. I left my hands down on purpose. I’d been doing that in practice, and none of my sparring partners—Olympic level boxers—could touch me. Sal kept on yelling at me to keep my hands up—that all it takes is one shot one time to get through, and that’s it. I didn’t listen. I wouldn’t listen.

  That arrogance cost me everything I’d worked an entire career for up to that point. I’m not going to let that happen again.

  “You’re right, Splinter.”

  “I really can’t wait for that to go away,” he jokes.

  “You’ll be waiting a while.”

  Just then I see Matt’s face go from a huge smile into a worried look of dread. I turn around to see what he’s looking at, and I see Mila running in the door, looking terrified. Matt runs over before I can get there. “What’s going on? Mila? Are you okay?”

  I don’t ask the same question, I wait for her to answer Matt’s. She looks panicked, and her eyes are red and puffy like she’s been crying. I can see that her mind is all over the place. Her eyes are shooting all over the room and she has little beads of sweat on her forehead.

  “Mila, here!” I yell at her only to snap her mind out of the panic she’s obviously feeling. It was the right move, because as soon as I do she looks right into my eyes, and I smile and modulate my tone so
as not to panic her. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Not here,” she says. “Not in front of everyone.”

  I look at Matt and he motions for me to use his office in the back. I pick her up and take her. Everyone is staring again. The poor girl has had two different meltdowns in the gym in a short period of time. But I don’t think she cares about other people’s perception of her right now. Something is really wrong, and I need to find out what it is.

  We get to Matt’s office and I shut the door before I lower her to her feet. Guiding her to the couch, I pull her down with me and turn her body to face me.

  “Listen to me. Take a couple of big, deep breaths, just like we did at the diner that day. Can you do that with me?” She nods. I model the breathing for her again, and she follows me, in turn. “Good. There we go. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen. What is it?”

  “I need to tell you something. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

  “Okay. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mila

  I tell him the story of what just happened. But before that, I tell him the story—the story of why I have such bad anxiety. The story of why Holly dragged me to a self-defense class. I tell him everything and hope he isn’t angry with me. He just listens, never interrupting, and waits for me to finish before he asks me a few questions.

  “This guy you were dating. . .”

  “Brett.”

  “Brett, right. You said he’s in prison?”

  “Yes. Not for nearly long enough, but he had a great lawyer. He comes from money and they’re one of those families that have a lawyer on retainer at all times. He’s gotten them out of all sorts of shady business deals and petty crimes through the years.”