Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
LANZ
I don't know exactly why King called a team meeting, and I don't know why it feels so strange to be having one. Once upon a time, not even that long ago, this was our routine. Reflex. Conditioning, practice, training, prep for meets.
But now, even with the salle full of weaponry and kit again, with everything looking expectant, like we could just grab a sword, flip on a mask, and start bouting again, it's obviously different. Very different.
But I'm not sure exactly how.
Kai's already there when I jog down the steps, which is strange, because he never shows up to anything before me, let alone first. He nods as I come in from his place on the bench.
“You know what this is about?” I ask, slowing my steps.
Kai shakes his head. He gives me a once-over. “Hanging in there, Slim?”
I clench my jaw. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Kai gives me a puzzled look. “What's it supposed to mean? You look like you have cancer and a tapeworm. And the tapeworm also has cancer.”
“Fuck you,” I say, but I don't have a lot of heart in it.
That's what everyone said about my dad, in the rumor mill anyway, that it was cancer or some kind of wasting disease, that he was just being private about it.
But he went quick, at least. Weeks, barely two months.
And while I haven't been feeling any better, I also haven't been getting worse.
Which is weird, because I've been so cognizant not to touch her, to even look at her more than necessary, which is its own kind of painful, but beats the alternative.
And it does mean that I've basically touched nobody in God knows how long.
As if on cue, Cal strides in. “Hey,” he says to both of us at once, making just the barest eye contact. Immediately he puts his hands in his pockets. “You guys know what we’re—”
“No,” Kai and I say in unison.
“So I take it it's not some kind of surprise inspection from the consistory, then?” I add to Kai. He snorts. Cal looks alarmed, almost panicked. I'd tell him to relax, but—
“Hi. Sorry, I was in class.” Kingston rushes through the door, his coat still on and bag over his shoulder. “I apologize.”
“It's cool,” Kai says. “Kinda at your beck and call here, so…” He shrugs.
King's jaw twitches. He sets down his bag, then takes off his coat, but stays standing up, like he's about to deliver some kind of speech.
“So should we dress?” Callahan says, “Or...”
Kingston shakes his head. “No. No. I mean, you can bout afterwards, if you want, but…I just figured this was the best place to do this.” He exhales sharply. “I know it's strange to even consider talking about next season, but—”
“Ha.” Kai breathes out. “Understatement.”
“—the fact is,” Kingston goes on without missing a beat, “we should probably just continue as if everything's going to be normal. Same prep, same opponents.”
“You really think they'll send St. Ignaty’s over?” I mutter. “Come on.”
Kingston presses his lips together. “Regardless,” he says, voice slightly more taut, “I just think we should be prepared and not get caught unawares. And I think…” he trails off slightly.
“I think a sport like this, the discipline is the point.
And I don't mean that in my stupid, hard-ass way, like usual,” he says before Kai can even get a word in edgewise.
“I just mean…there's a reason that this is the sport that we pursue alongside everything else we do, you know?
It's centering, dignified. It requires precision and aggression, but also decorum and restraint. It's a balance.”
Or a contradiction, I think. But whatever.
“It's about more than just fencing,” Kingston concludes. “But it is, also, about fencing. So...” He exhales again. “I'm making Kai team captain.”
No one, and I mean no one, anticipates this coming from Kingston's mouth. Callahan's jaw drops. I hear myself gasp, which is kind of embarrassing. And Kai just looks…shell-shocked. Totally and completely stunned.
But only for a second or two. Then he smirks and shakes his head.
“Very funny, King,” he says. “Especially after all that stuff about discipline. You got me there. But seriously—”
“I am serious,” Kingston says. And his tone sounds it. “You're a better strategist, you're a more decisive leader, you're better with weaponry, you don’t…hesitate, you—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay.” Kai swipes through the air like he's trying to push away Kingston's words.
But he blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it.
“King, she picked you. The fucking…spirit of the place, or whatever. The lady. You held that crusty old sword and she hit you with lightning or whatever and—”
“She's not on the team,” Kingston says dryly. “And also…” He struggles. “Also, I don’t care. Whatever help she's given us has been given. The sword's imbued if we ever need it for anything. And I just don’t…” Again he trails off. “It just should be you, Kai.”
The salle goes quiet. I stare at Kai, and then at Callahan for some reason, a prickling feeling of resentment rising in my stomach that has nothing to do with the topic at hand.
Then, finally, Kai sucks in a big dramatic breath, slaps his knees, and stands. “Kingston, respectfully, I decline.”
Kingston blinks. “What?”
“I decline,” Kai repeats. “I don't want it. Uneasy lies the head and all that.” He folds his arms. “I mean, look, it's not that I'm not power-hungry. I totally am. And I probably would be better at a lot of captaining stuff than you are, as you so kindly pointed out. But, like, that's the problem.”
Kingston, too, folds his arms. “I don't follow.”
“I want it,” Kai says. “I'm, like, passionate and aggro and all the things you just said.
I'd probably let it go to my head. And,” he adds, “if I'm being perfectly honest?
I don't want the responsibility. I don't want it to be my fault if something doesn't work out.” He pauses.
“I'd rather let someone else be the whipping boy.”
He and Kingston lock eyes for a moment.
“So to speak,” Kai adds in a lower voice.
Kingston purses his lips, like he really hadn't anticipated something like this, and to be honest, I wouldn't have either. But I gotta hand it to Kai. It’s pretty mature of him. Mature of anyone, really, but extra if you’re Kai and starting from a disadvantage on that front.
“We could put it to a vote,” Cal offers. “I know that’s not how stuff works here, but—”
Kingston considers. “You would all just vote for me anyway.”
“Yeah,” Cal admits. Kingston looks to me, and I nod, too.
“I mean, obviously, dude,” I say. “I’ve known you, like, forever. I trust you more than anyone else I know, I think.”
Kingston smiles, faintly but genuinely.
"All right," he says. Well... He lifts his hands and lowers them, letting them smack against his legs. "I guess I've been overruled."
"Long live the king," says Kai, smacking him on the back.
"Now what," I say.
"That was all," Kingston says. "I mean, we should get back into practicing shape, but..." He blinks. "I think that can wait."
"There are no updates," Callahan says.
God, his voice is setting me on edge. Maybe because I haven't heard it in so long.
"What? Oh," Kai says, realizing that Cal's talking to him. "You mean from the Albinos?" He shakes his head. "Nothing for a few days. I'm probably overdue to check, though." He shrugs. "I need to go into town anyway. Keep you posted."
"Okay." He gives Cal a thumbs up.
Cal doesn't seem reassured. He chews on his cheek.
"It's okay, Cal," Kingston says. "Kai's handling it."
"Yeah," Cal nods. He took his arms around himself, as if he could possibly make himself smaller. Kingston slides a glance over at me.
"I'm gonna go…study." It's thoroughly unconvincing, especially given that he almost forgets his bag and then comes back for it. But I guess he can tell that there's some kind of vibe going between me and Cal right now, and he wants to be out of the blast radius.
I don't really think Kingston's judgmental in any way—like, upset that his lifelong friend is kind of a little bit gay sometimes, or whatever. Actually, I think he's just more uncomfortable with the idea of anyone having sex—except himself, I guess. I don't know.
But I'm glad he does leave, because my simmering need to corner Cal is about to bubble over.
Cal, though, doesn't seem to catch Kingston’s drift. He's about to leave, too, without so much as a word, and I have to grab his arm to stop him from going.
“Hey.”
I let go slower than I have to. And I want to grab him back as soon as I do.
"Hey," I say again. “Where were you?"
Cal frowns. "What?"
"Saturday. You just disappeared. You were gone all day. You didn't tell anyone, and you just..."
Cal flushes. He mumbles something I can't quite hear.
"What?" I ask.
"I said, I'm surprised you even noticed," Cal says. "You're like a ghost."
I can't believe it. "What do you mean? I was worried about you," I say. "Just disappearing like that? Without saying—”
"I wasn't doing anything bad, or anything," Cal says hurriedly.
"Yeah, I didn't say you were," I fire back, unable to stop the irritation in my voice. "I'm saying that because, like, I was worried that something had happened."
"Nothing happened," Cal says. He stares at me, stares at me in a way that's uncomfortable, even as it's something I have fervently missed in the past God knows how many days without really seeing him.
"What?" I say, my voice suddenly uncertain and low.
"You're worried about me?" he says, and laughs a little. "Look at you, Lanz."
"I'm fine," I say, for what feels like the millionth time this week, or even today. "And we're not talking about me."
"We're not. I know we're not," Cal says. “Because you're avoiding everyone. You're avoiding me. You're avoiding Gwenna. And yet you're acting as though nothing is wrong. I'm sorry, man, I know I’m not genius-level smart like everyone else around here, but I'm not that dumb."
I stare at the strip beneath me, the scuff marks from shoes, the occasional ding from a glancing blade.
“Look,” I say, keeping my words hard as I can. “Even if there was something wrong, even if there was, there would literally be nothing you could do about it, okay? It would take...it would take a goddamn miracle. An act of God." I look up, feeling vicious. "All right? Okay?”
And when I see his face, I hate that I've said it. I hate that I'm being this way. I hate everything about me.
Because I love Cal.
I love that face like a stupid Greek god, love his glasses, love his big hands and little smiles, love the Bostonese that creeps in after too many glasses of wine.
I love that he's a good fighter, even for a lost cause.
And I want to say it. I wish I could say it, but there's no way that would make anything better.
To give him that and then rip it all away—that wouldn't be an act of love at all.
It’s…better this way. Even if it’s not good at all.