17. Dante
Chapter 17
Dante
“I should leave. You’re obviously distracted.” Em gestures toward the bench, where my phone vibrates face up. “Must be killing you, missing that tournament to babysit.”
While my teammates are at the World Cup in Bulgaria, I’m stuck here. The Fédération Internationale d’Escrime tournament points that help with Olympic qualifications are slipping away.
I ignore Em; she’s trying to get out of drills. This is our fourth session together, and it’s always the same. She shows up late, bristles at every correction, and leaves early. I’ve tried different approaches: strict technique, free sparring, even letting her attack while I defend.
Nothing seems to stick. And now here we are again, her frustration building like a pressure cooker.
“You’re not bending your back leg anymore,” I say, tapping my blade against the floor. “Again.”
“How much longer?” The borrowed, ill-fitting uniform—scavenged from a former student since she’d refused Coach’s offer to buy her proper gear—hangs loose and awkward on her frame. It’s dark with sweat despite the early hour. I feel a twinge of sympathy watching her struggle with the hand-me-down equipment.
“ Povtoreniye, mat’ ucheniya ,” I say, quoting Coach’s favorite Russian proverb. “Repetition is the mother of learning. So we’re going to do this until you can do it in your sleep.” I demonstrate but notice my own stance has grown slack, professional standards eroding in this fluorescent-lit purgatory. “This isn’t aimless stabbing. It’s precision. Art.”
“Art, stabbing, whatever.” Her fingers trail along a curved saber with unexpected reverence. “I want to fight.”
“This isn’t street fighting,” I say, watching her shift weight between her feet. “It’s about control. Discipline.” I pause. “I used to think like you.”
“Right. Because you know all about real fights, preppy boy.”
She has no idea how much the fight means to me. How I crave it, every hit and point and chance to break free, to let loose, to lose control and have all that fire and energy centered onto something.
Even though the temper never fades and the touch of skin-to-skin contact is sometimes better than sword-to-sword, fencing is my lifeline. Old memories surface, unwanted but familiar.
“The anger you’re carrying? I recognize it,” I say.
“Sure you do. A trust fund baby with a movie star girlfriend.”
All week I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with Reese. Since the party last Saturday, she’s clicked back into her professionalism. My concern that I showed her too much of myself swells in my chest.
“Get your nose out of my personal life and focus on your form. Why are you here if you won’t take it seriously?”
Em rips off her mask, her saber hitting the ground with theatrical force. “Coach Lev said he could help me get out of this fucking state if I was good enough. Colleges love this fancy shit, apparently.”
“He’s right. I’ve seen plenty get full rides. But you won’t be applying for another year,” I remind her. “You got your sights set on something?”
“Columbia or Princeton.”
“Your grades good enough?”
She rolls her eyes. “Were yours? Oh wait—sorry, you had the big family name to help you get in.”
I realize it then. The bus is her daily transport, not the chauffeured rides I took for granted. Parents remain conspicuously absent from her stories. This place isn’t a choice, it’s her only option.
Coach said she joined the fencing club to have an excuse to hit something. But I’ve seen the way she moves. If I can get through to her and help her get a scholarship somewhere, it’ll be another thing to add to my list of accomplishments for the disciplinary committee.
“You’ve got real skill,” I admit. “Way beyond most kids your age.”
“Whatever,” she sighs, stretching her arms above her head. The movement yanks the wrist of her jacket down, and a flash catches my eye. A watch—a couple grand on her wrist. Last practice, it was new headphones. I know she doesn’t have a job. There’s only one way she’s getting this stuff.
She’s stealing.
We all have our vices. Makes sense why Coach paired us together.
“You know, I hated fencing at first. When I was your age, I loved getting in trouble. Had nothing to work toward. Sound familiar?” I pause, aware of the weight of what I’m about to say. “The hard truth about the difference between you and me is that my parents could afford private-school solutions.”
“You want me to feel bad that your parents sent you off to some fancy private school?”
“They tried everything else first,” I say, remembering the endless parade of counselors and specialists, each promising answers. “But yeah, eventually. Boarding school became the solution after I got arrested…” I exhale slowly. “The school made me pick a sport. Fencing provided me structure. A way to channel all of this—”
“You got arrested?”Her eyes light up like she’s met a celebrity.
“Saber found me when nothing else could. It’s the rawest form of fencing—pure velocity and aggression compressed into technique. Your entire body becomes a target. Every slash, every movement has to mean something. When you’re carrying that much inside you, Saber teaches you to transform it. Not to extinguish the fire, but to give it purpose.”
“Sounds inspirational, but all we’re doing here are drills.”
“And if you stopped being lazy with your lunges, we’d be able to move on to the piste.”
“And if I don’t want to do stupid lunges? What are you going to do? Kick me out of the program? Pawn me off on someone else?” Her eyes dart between me and her discarded mask. “Like everyone else fucking does.”
Her words linger in the stale gym air. Everyone else fucking does.
It’s true. I could walk away. Ask Coach to give me a new kid to train. One that’s less of a pain in my ass. Let Em think she’s right about everyone bailing.
Yet there’s a crack in her that hits close to home. I’ve bailed on enough obligations to recognize it. Commitments and expectations that felt like they were suffocating me. Running away from shit has always been my go-to, my escape route.
But maybe the real power move is staying. Maybe it’s standing your ground when everything in you screams to get the hell out.
I could be another statistic in Em’s careful catalog of abandonments, or I could be the exception that makes her question her own math.
Not everyone leaves.
Some people stay.
Reese’s advice rings in my ears. Be kind and patient . That’s exactly what Em needs.
“Pick up your mask,” I say, walking onto the piste. Without hesitation, she joins me. “You want to stop doing drills? Show me what you got.”
For the next hour, we fence. Em’s blade rips through the air, her feet dancing across the strip with deadly precision. Our sabers crash together—parry four, riposte, remise. Through my mask, I track her every move, waiting for the tell.
Winning used to mean becoming another champagne-soaked legend, upholding the work I put into making this sport the best it could be. But what if the committee doesn’t clear me to keep fencing after my disciplinary review?
What happens then?
A reality without fencing is terrifying.
For the past month, I’ve been training Em and Reese, becoming something like a compass for them—just like Mom is for her players.
It twists in my gut, the thought of watching others claim what used to be mine. The media reduces coaches to footnotes, if they remember them at all. Do you learn to romanticize the aftermath of glory? The shift from star to spectator feels like a slow death. A glimpse into my future—another has-been fading to static.
Fencing barely registers in the cultural consciousness, though I built a brand, made them notice. But however much I hate to admit it, the sport will keep spinning, with or without me.
While I’m distracted, Em’s there, faster than she has any right to be, front foot pivoting while her back leg drives like a piston. Her saber curves under mine in some wild move that would make Lev cringe. The tip slams into my lamé.
Touch.
“Holy shit,” she pants, holding the perfect extension. “Did I just…?”
I pull off my mask, genuinely startled. “Unorthodox but brilliant. Where did you learn that?”
“I didn’t. It felt right. Like my body knew.”
My phone’s harsh alarm cuts through the moment. Time’s up.
As Em packs up, something metallic falls from her bag—a handful of security tags.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she barks, scooping up the stolen items, her eyes darting to me.
I pretend to fumble with my gear. “You want to get into those colleges?”
“I do.”
She’s talented in a way that makes my chest tight, maybe better than I was at her age. But talent isn’t everything, and I see too much of my younger self in her restlessness. “How about this? You clean up your act, and I’ll write you a recommendation letter to Princeton, straight from an alumnus and the best fencer that D1 team ever had.”
“Are you serious?”
I understand what Coach must have seen in me back then. Not just potential, but someone who needed an anchor. Maybe I could be that for her, someone who sees past the defenses to what lies beneath.
“Yes. But that also means you’re going to need to start entering tournaments.”
“And I’ve done enough lunges to do that now?”
“There’s no such thing as enough lunges. But the Southern California division holds monthly tournaments with U16 categories. I’ll enter you for October’s competition—if you stop slacking off.”
She pauses at the door, adjusting her bag. “Fine.”
“Same time next week?”
Em turns back to me, something like a smile breaking through. “Thanks. You know…you’re not as much of an asshole as I thought.”
I laugh softly, the sound filling the empty gym. “High praise. I’ll take it.”
Her “whatever” carries less edge than usual. When she’s gone, I check my phone again.
No messages from Reese. Em was right. I am pathetically checking this thing.
Dante
No homework tonight?
Little Fighter
Been a little busy today.
We’ll be shooting late again. Can I get it to you tomorrow?
Dante
Some would think you’re avoiding me after last weekend.
So many cancelled training sessions…
Little Fighter
Take it up with Felix.
Dante
Sad. I won’t have anything to listen to on my flight home.
Little Fighter
You could listen to your own voice. You love the sound of that.
Dante
I recall last Saturday, you loved it too.
Little Fighter
Doesn’t sound like me.
Dante
Want me to refresh your memory?
Little Fighter
My, aren’t we feeling bold today?
Dante
You should know by now I like to keep things interesting.
Little Fighter
How was Em’s practice?
Dante
Deflecting? Fine.
Entering her into a competition. She’s getting there.
Little Fighter
Well, you do know exactly how to bring out the best in your students.
Dante
We’re still on for our Sunday outing, right?
Little Fighter
I guess you’ll have to wait and see.
My fingers hover over the keys, muscles tight with restraint as need courses through me. The words I miss you appear on the screen before I violently delete them, curses falling from my clenched jaw.
Every cell in me rebels against this careful distance we maintain. She’ll never give in. She’s too polished.
My hands flex as I remember the silk of her hair, her voice from Saturday still echoing, Please, Dante. Kiss me.
Her scent of cedar and magnolia lingers, weaving through my dreams, leaving me tangled in my bedsheets, aching.
I should find someone else, someone temporary, but every option feels hollow. It’s been weeks since I’ve touched anyone else, since I’ve wanted to. The memory of past dalliances feels like watching a stranger’s life through dirty glass. My body craves only her.
All I see is golden hair catching sunlight, that devastating pink-lipped smile, the way her sweat clings to me after we train, driving me mad.
The way she makes denial feel like the sweetest torture. The tension coils tighter as I reread our messages, each word a perfect little wound. And God help me, I’m addicted to the way it hurts. What the fuck has she done to me?
My hands itch for a cigarette, but that vice is done. I turn to the next best thing and open the group chat with my Princeton crowd, desperate for distraction.
Dante
What’s happening later?
Tiago
Getty mansion’s going off. The usual suspects. Pure MDMA.
My form’s already gone to shit from all this time off, the last thing I need is chemical assistance derailing me further.
Mei
Legion of Honor Auction. Ancient Greek artifacts up for bid. Last year some tech bro dropped 8 figures on a private island just to fuck with his ex’s head. Fun drama.
Tiago
Your call.
Dante
Let’s play aristocrats tonight.
A classic scene: rich people pretending to care about dead civilizations while eyeing each other’s collarbones. Perfect place to fuck the memory of her right out of my system.