The Savage Gentleman

by Harlan, Christopher

  Hearing the whole thing recounted to me like that makes me feel silly. Maybe there’s something to what she’s saying.

  “Did I fuck this whole thing up?”

  “Not exactly,” Holly tells me. “You just started dating a fighter. They’re a special breed of human being, Mila. How many men do you know, when push comes to shove, who would voluntarily fight other men in a cage?”

  “I know a few guys who’d say that they would, but zero who actually would.”

  “Exactly. No one except Lucas. You’re dating yourself a savage, Mila. A little outburst from time to time might come with the territory. Yeah, he lost his cool but was it really that bad, given what happened? He loves you, and he’d do anything to keep you safe. He proved it. Forgive him for the rest.”

  “Why do you think he loves me?”

  “Because he almost killed another man who was trying to hurt you. Because he’s been training you to be able to defend yourself when he had the most important fight of his career coming up. Because of the way he looks at you. Trust me, he loves you.”

  I don’t know why—it seems stupid to even admit this to myself—but I’ve never thought of it that way. He’s been so loving to me that I didn’t even realize it was loving. Or maybe I’m still so fucked up from how Brett was with me that I wasn’t even capable of recognizing real love when it came along. I guess I still have some growth left to make.

  “Shit,” I say. “I fucked it up. I can’t believe this.”

  I fall down on the couch, tears forming in my eyes. Holly sits next to me and does what she’s always done—makes me feel better.

  “I doubt it. Someone who loves you like Lucas loves you doesn’t just walk away like nothing happened. He’s probably thinking that you don’t want to be with him because you stormed out and haven’t spoken to him since. You think if you called or texted that he wouldn’t respond?”

  “He’d respond.”

  “So? What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know. It might be a little awkward at this point, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” she says. “But I’d take awkward over sad and lonely any day of the week.”

  The woman has a point. She always has good points. “Maybe I’ll reach out.”

  “I think that you should. But, even if you chicken out, here.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out an envelope. The front of it reads A Girls Night Out. “From Sophie and I. A little gift for all the progress you’ve made.”

  “What is it?”

  “Open it up.”

  Inside there’s a piece of paper and three tickets. The paper reads ‘I can’t believe we’re going to a stupid fight, but we’d do anything to make sure you’re happy. Love, Your Girls.’ Inside is three front row tickets to Lucas’ fight on Saturday night. I look up at her confused.

  “We’re going to the fight together?”

  “Your powers of perception are amazing. Yes, girl, we’re going to see hot half naked men beat each other up.”

  My confusion turns to happiness. I normally hate surprises, but this is the best one I can remember. My girls are there for me even when I’m too stubborn to be there for myself. I’ll still reach out to Lucas, but if he can’t get back to me, I’ll be there for him, win, lose, or draw—hopefully win.

  “I love you guys.”

  “We love you too,” she says.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lucas

  Fight Week

  It’s Thursday.

  The fight is on Saturday and I’m by myself. Well, I’m almost by myself.

  “Hey you broken-handed motherfucker!”

  “Shut the fuck up, someone will hear you.”

  Damien. That’s Damien.

  “I don’t give a fuuuuuckk,” he yells, smiling like a jack ass the entire time.

  I grab him. It’s not hard, he’s smaller than me, but not by a whole lot. Damien’s another fighter at my gym. Scratch that—Damien is the fighter at my gym. He’s the best of all of us, and that’s saying something because we have a nice stable of up and coming guys. He fights welterweight—170 pounds, and he’s a fucking killer. He’s been away for the past year training Muay Thai in Thailand because, well, that’s the kind of savage that he is. He’s young—twenty-two—and a wild motherfucker if ever there was one. But he’s also a great dude who’s willing to help me out when no one else will. On top of that, he also lost his last fight, something that still eats at him like crazy.

  “I give a fuck, so stop. Seriously, I’m already on my own with this, I don’t need to piss anyone else here off.”

  “I’m hurt. How can you be alone when I’m here?” He makes a fake crying face then starts laughing. I can’t help but smile. He’s serious as a heart attack when it comes to training and his career, but outside of that he’s a goofball.

  “Fine,” I concede. “I’m not alone. I have the great Damien with me.”

  “That’s right, fuck-face, and we’re gonna smoke this fool, gimp hand or no gimp hand.”

  “You have such a delicate way of saying things.”

  “One of my many, many. . . oh, did I mention many talents!”

  “As long as you stay humble about it,” I joke.

  “Eh, humility is for pussies. I’ll save my humility for when I’m learning things—that’s really the only time it’s needed. But outside of that. . .” He points to his shirt—a jet black tee with the words “Fuck The World” in giant white capital letters. Damien is many things, but subtle he is not.

  “You sure it’s okay to use the facilities?” I ask. “Matt. . .”

  “I talked to Matt, it’s fine. We just have to use it at odd hours when no one else is around. You know how he is.”

  Yeah, I know how he is. He’s stubborn, old school, and even though I understand his decision, it’s still eating at me that he’ll let me go into the most important fight of my life without him or his coaching staff.

  “This is a dick move on his part, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Damien says. “It is a dick move. But so was how you acted more than once. So is how I’ve acted a few times in the past. That’s the thing about being a dick, brother, we all do it on a semi-regular basis. In this particular case, he’s not going into a fight with an injured fighter. You want him to lose his credibility as a trainer?”

  That was a sticking point with Matt. Yes, he was pissed that I broke my hand, but he understood that I had nothing to do with causing that situation. The real issue between us was about the fight—he offered to cancel the fight, let me heal up, then resume training and—hopefully—get a rematch when I was better. But that whole process could have been a year, at least, and there was no guarantee that Jason would even be around. Or my replacement opponent could have gone in there, smoked Jason in ten second, and gotten a sweet UFC contract that should have been mine. I wasn’t willing to wait, even though it would have been the smart thing to do.

  I was willing to risk it all—my health, my career, my everything—in order for a chance to beat a guy I know I can beat, even with one hand. Matt was not. He wasn’t comfortable training me with the risk of fucking up my hand, or having one of the other guys feel guilty about accidentally injuring me. Matt’s not a risk taker like that—he has a business to run that’s bigger than just me, and even though I get it, like I said, I’m not a gym owner. I’m a fighter, and if I have to do this alone, then that’s what I’m gonna do. It just sucks Matt won’t be there. I could really use him.

  “No, I get his point of view, I just. . .”

  “What? Wanted him to be a crazy bastard like you? Want him to risk feeding his family and the business his father started, all because you don’t want to rehab your hand? Come on now! You’re not selfish like that.”

  Fuck you for being so reasonable, Damien. I expect better of you.

  “So, I fucked up with not one, but two different people in my life I care for. Great.”

  “Oh yeah,” Damien says. �
��That chick. What’s her name?”

  “Mila.”

  “Mila, right. You texted me that picture of her—she’s smoking hot.”

  “I know. And speaking of which, it took you forever to get back to me.”

  “Thailand, dude. How strong of a WiFi signal do you think they have in the jungles of Southeast Asia?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’ll run point for you on Matt’s end—he loves me. I can talk to him about anything. I’ll see what I can do. But the girl? That’s all you, bro?”

  It sure is all me. I’ve got to do something about that whole situation. I don’t think I said anything too crazy, but then again, I’m dealing with a woman who was almost beaten to death by her ex and then assaulted by the guy’s brother. I’ve got to make that whole thing right again.

  “I’ll deal with that,” I tell him. “But right now, we need to game plan. You and me.”

  “Let’s do it, bro. You know I always have ideas.”

  Before I get to hear his ideas, I hear a sound from my bag. I thought that I turned my phone off, but I guess I forgot. I run over as Damien rolls his eyes at me. “Relax,” I tell him. My phone never makes me smile, but right now it does. It’s a text from Mila.

  Mila: Hey. We need to talk. I’m not angry. After your fight or whenever, text me. I’ll wait.

  I smile but then put my phone right away. I have to compartmentalize right now. I can’t get caught up in any relationship drama until after Jason and I have had our date in the octagon.

  “Let’s go, man!”

  “Shut the fuck up, I’m coming. Shit, you’d think it was you who had the fight of his life coming up.”

  “I’m in there with you, brother, so it may as well be me.”

  Damien’s like a brother, but what he’s never experienced—to my knowledge—is a woman like Mila. If he had, he’d also take a few seconds before his last day of training to stare at his phone and smile, just like I’m doing right now.

  <><><>

  It’s Friday night.

  Weigh-ins.

  Cutting weight is the worst part of fighting. Worse than getting punched. Worse than leg kicks. Worse than getting choked unconscious. Your body is literally eating itself. Some guys look like the men in scenes from World War II movies when a concentration camp is liberated. What cutting weight means is that we’re shedding water weight—basically dehydrating ourselves—so that the pounds drop off of us quicker than normal.

  Fighters have to weigh in at our contracted weight. For Jason and I, that weight is two hundred and five pounds. One pound over for either of us and the title fight is off, and it just becomes a regular bout. I’ve done my part, and I hope he’s done the same.

  The arena that hosts the fights also hosts the Friday weigh ins. All the fighters are miserable—myself include. We’re cranky because we’re starving, and all I can think about is getting off the scale so that I can eat and drink something.

  It’s the first time I’m seeing Jason in person since we fought the first time. I have no doubt that scumbag has EPO or some kind of steroid inside of him, but the testing at these lower level shows just isn’t there yet. Guys get away with stuff all the time, and some gyms—like Jason’s—have a reputation for having dirty fighters.

  I see him there, looking as skeletal as me, and his suffering makes me feel better about my own. Even fighters who hate each other have a mutual respect for the weight cut. That’s about all I respect of Jason. After we each hit our target weight, we have the face off.

  We turn to each other and hit a fight pose. This part I love. Looking into another man’s eyes tells you everything that you need to know about him as a fighter. Some guys talk a good game. Some even fake a good game. Trash talk, bravado, posturing, all of it. But the eyes don’t lie. The eyes always tell the truth.

  And as I look into his, I see that he’s ready to lose to me. He wants to. He’s ready to surrender that title to me so that I can rise to the top of this game, and he can fall by the wayside, into obscurity.

  The stare down ends, and we each turn and go our own ways. Now all the bullshit is over. No more talking, or interviews, or stare downs. Now we fight.

  Now, it’s time to let us be the savages we are.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Lucas

  It’s Saturday.

  Fight night.

  I’m at the hotel with Damien playing video games and drinking water. You take the little things in life for granted until they’re denied to you. Even simple things like a sandwich and water can taste like the best thing you’ve ever consumed when you’ve been cutting weight for days prior. Now my weight is back up to normal. Right now, I’m two hundred and twenty-five pounds. The commissions only care that you weigh in at your agreed upon weight the night before—in the twenty-four hours after that, you can balloon up as large as you’d like—and most guys do. It isn’t uncommon for guys to fight ten, twenty, even thirty pounds above their listed weight class come fight night. For me the number is twenty, and I feel like my old self once I have some calories and water in me.

  “Jump, asshole, jump!”

  Damien gets into his video games. He’s like a big kid—a big, violent kid who’s one of the best strikers in the world. His silliness distracts me from all the doubt going through my head. Most guys won’t admit to those kind of thoughts—they want to put up a front like they’re world beaters—they’re not afraid of anything or anyone, but that’s all bullshit. We’re all afraid—not of our opponents, or of getting hurt like regular people—we’re scared of failure, of losing, of being embarrassed in front of a room full of people, of letting our teams down after months of work.

  But I’m trying to block the fear out. There’s nothing it’s going to do but get me hurt. I look at my phone, which I never do this close to leaving for the arena, and I see one more text from Mila, wishing me good luck. It’s the boost of confidence I really need.

  No matter what happens out there—if I win or if I don’t—I need to try and make things right with her. I was falling in love with her, big time, and for a guy like me to admit something like that takes a lot. Fighters are selfish—we live for our own dreams and aspirations—but I’ve spent the last few months thinking about her, worrying about her issues, and trying to keep her safe, sometimes at the cost of my own dreams. That means something. It’s not a mistake, or me not caring about all that I want to do, it tells me that she’s the one—the girl I’m meant to be with. I have to make it work. I text her back real quick so she doesn’t think I’m ignoring her, then my phone goes off. She knows it’s fight night, and now my focus has to shift to where it belongs—towards ending the night of Jason.

  I’m shit at video games right now because I basically have one hand. It’s getting better, but even when I bump against something or try to grab the handle on my bag it hurts. I try to play with Damien but he notices right away.

  “Yo, let’s stop. Put the controller down, I’ll play one player vs. the computer. You can watch me whoop ass, then I’ll do the same for you later on.”

  “Yeah,” I concede, putting my controller down. “I don’t need to go out on a video game related injury. I’d be the laughing stock of the internet.”

  “Bitch, you think anyone knows who you are yet?”

  I laugh. “After tonight they will. They’ll all know me then. I promise you that.”

  Damien’s silliness taps into the intensity that lies just underneath. He looks at me with fixed eyes and a twisted smile. “That’s fucking right. We win with one hand or with two. This is meant to be.”

  “That’s right. Now let’s go to the arena.”

  <><><>

  I’m warming up in the back. It’s almost my turn to fight.

  Local shows are a different animal than big events like the UFC puts on. There are fewer people, it’s less professional, and there are fewer fights. I know Matt’s in the building because one the female fighters at our gym was also early on the card, but s
he’s in a different locker room. I haven’t seen Matt at all in weeks, and I’m not about to chase him down now. He did what he felt he had to do, and so did I. Besides, I have Damien, and I’m about a half hour away from punching Jason in the face—with my left hand, anyway.

  The last bout before mine is getting started—I hear the names of the other guys being called out, and the sounds of that, coupled with the roar of the crowd, kicks my body into fight mode. The rational part of my brain starts to shut down, and I have a focus unlike any other.

  Damien stepped out to get some water, and I’m shadow boxing in the corner. Half of this is a show—I don’t want any of the other fighters to have any indication that I’m hurt. I throw my right like there’s nothing wrong with it, even though I know I’d break it badly if it were a person and not the air I was throwing at. No one goes into a fight healthy. It’s just a matter of how hurt you are, and how well you can mask it from your opponent. I’m doing my best, but in the back of my mind I’m still worried.

  I throw some combinations to get a sweat going, then practice a few double legs. I just want my muscles to be warm enough so that I’m loose out there. I keep throwing the same combination—jab, jab, cross, then shoot in for a takedown—over and over. It’s the one Damien and I have been practicing so that I can grapple with Jason rather than strike with him. I do it about three times in a row, when I hear a voice from behind me.

  “You’re dropping your left when you throw that cross.” I’d recognize Master Splinter’s voice anywhere. I turn around and see him standing there with Damien, who’s grinning like a kid on Christmas.

  “He’s right. We worked on that, bro.”

  “Damien, give us a second?” Matt says, not looking away from me.

  “Sure thing, boss. I’ll be out in the hallway.” Matt walks up to me. I have mixed emotions when I see him—a blend of anger and happiness that I don’t know quite what to do with. I’m not even sure what to say to him, but he saves me the trouble of having to decide.