5. Reese
Chapter 5
Reese
August 16th
HOLLYWOOD’S LATEST GENDER-SWAP GIMMICK: Felix Langford’s Robyn Hood Trains Pretty Face to Swing Swords in Studio’s Desperate Bid for Relevance
The Big Pine Lodge thrums with movement. Outside, towering redwoods cast long August shadows across the old summer campgrounds. The set crew converted this building into a makeshift training gym. Mirrors line the walls above a patchwork of exercise mats.
My muscles burn as I lunge forward, attempting a direct thrust. The wooden waster sword feels impossibly heavy in my grip.
While we are filming, I’ll use a lightweight steel sword, but for training I have to use these heavy wooden waster swords. They’re designed to build strength, though right now, all they’re doing is making my arms scream.
After six weeks of practicing sword forms in empty air, holding an actual weapon feels jarring. I’ve done the work —grueling cardio and strength training in LA, hours of visualization exercises, mostly just me chanting Michelle Obama arms with every bicep curl—but I’m still not strong enough for this. The waster sword is far heavier than the two-pound dumbbells Nick had me using to tone my arms.
My breath comes in ragged pants behind the too-tight headgear Nick insists I wear “for liability reasons.” He watches me with thinly veiled impatience.
In the mirror, my sweat-darkened tank top, flyaway hair, and bulky protective gear make me look like a kid playing dress-up in a world of professionals.
“Focus on your stance, dude,” Nick says, checking his phone for what must be the fifth time in ten minutes. “Try it again.”
I reset and attempt the attack again. Arm not extended enough. And again. Balance is off. And again. Lunged too early.
I’ve challenged myself countless times in my career. Yet here I am, completely unable to execute basic fight choreography.
The worst part? He’s here.
Dante Hastings.
Across the room, he moves with ease and precision. His waster sword cuts through air with controlled power. Every movement purposeful.
Stop looking! He’s nothing but a distraction—an infuriatingly skilled distraction who’s clearly never struggled through training.
In my strongly worded email to casting—which went unanswered—I specifically noted that the classic sheriff should be played by an unpleasant everyman. Not someone whose hamstrings have their own hamstrings.
I suppress an eyeroll. The isolated training without the crew has been absurd, but, in the director’s words, we have to protect our lead. Tomorrow I’ll face my first real combat scenes with the full cast, going straight into filming. I must nail it perfectly on the first take.
I grit my teeth and try the direct thrust attack one more time, but Nick sidesteps effortlessly. My fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt as frustration builds.
“Come on, princess, this isn’t Pilates!” Nick calls out. “Stop being so delicate about it. You got this. Your body just needs to learn this the hard way—no shortcuts.”
I abandon the direct thrust and work through basic offensive and defensive techniques. Horizontal cut. Defensive parry. My arms tremble as doubt creeps in.
In mere hours, I need to embody Robyn—fierce, untouchable—for promo shots, then film an emotional scene with my character’s dying father. My lines are solid, my motivations clear. If only I could master this sword work that Nick never properly prepared me for.
Nick sighs. “Little more effort, rookie.” The nickname he’s used since day one, despite my repeated corrections. “Put those pretty arms to work.”
“Maybe I need to practice saying my lines with the movements,” I manage between breaths. “Since that’s what I’ll be doing on camera on Thursday, during our first fight scene.”
“I don’t think that’s what’s missing.”
I try anyway, raising my sword. “They’ve underestimated me—” The words catch as I perform the horizontal cut, stumbling forward. “My whole—” Another failed parry. “My whole life.”
Why can’t my brain and body connect? I can cry on command, fake trip with practiced grace, nail emotional beats perfectly—but the moment I have to deliver lines while wielding this waster I should have been training with all along? My body refuses to cooperate.
“Less talking, more practicing.” Nick suggests, lowering his waster sword.
“But I have to master saying my lines and the choreography,” I argue, struggling to keep annoyance from overtaking my voice.
Nick frowns. “Look, sweetie, maybe you should leave some mental room to focus on those delicate little feet of yours.”
Mental room? What does that even mean?
“Argh!” I groan, my blade jolting to the side as Nick effortlessly parries my offense.
Across the room, the male actors continue their drills uninterrupted. Dante executes another flawless sequence. No one walks on eggshells around him; no one treats him like he might break at any moment. No one is calling him princess, sweetie, or rookie.
Must be nice.
“Have you given more thought to the stunt double?” Nick suggests for the hundredth time.
My stomach knots. My own trainer has lost faith in me.
“I can do it!” Heat rises in my chest, intense and persistent. I can’t breathe with this protective gear weighing me down, restricting my movement, making me feel awkward and sluggish.
“We’re not going to reach Felix’s standards at this pace.”
Something inside me breaks.
I tear off the headgear, pulling it over my head so forcefully my braid comes loose. Then I strip away the chest padding and wrist guards.
“Put that back on—” Nick starts.
But I’ve already made my move.
I advance, forcing Nick into a defensive position.
“I can’t—” I pant between strikes, my sword movements becoming more desperate with each swing. “Breathe in that—” Another slash. “Ridiculous thing!” I regain my balance after stumbling. “I can’t move!” My frustration mounts. “And these—” I growl, striking harder. “Lines—” Faster, making him retreat. “I can’t deliver my lines properly!”
Nick’s expression shifts to panic.
Let’s see who’s the amateur now.
“Reese, enough—we need a break.”
I swing again, my frustration reaching its peak. Our wooden swords connect with a sharp crack. Block, defend, thrust. My body responds instinctively now, fueled by weeks of accumulated self-doubt and criticism.
“Either train me properly—” My arms ache, but for once I’m not second-guessing my every move. The waster isn’t just a prop anymore; it’s an extension of myself. “Or get out—” I groan. “Of my way.”
Nick winces as my next strike connects solidly with his forearm. “Ow! Easy!”
His eyes flash as something in him snaps. Gone is the condescending trainer. His stance changes. No more holding back. He meets my next attack with genuine resistance, and for the first time, we engage in a real fight.
Finally!
To my amazement, my strikes follow perfect form. Lead with the blade, extend, lunge forward. My weapon arm throbs, but I push through the pain. A surprised laugh escapes me. I’m doing it. I’m actually—
My concentration breaks. A movement in the mirror—Dante is observing, his expression inscrutable.
Nick’s sword slips past my guard.
White-hot pain explodes across my jaw as wood connects with skin.
I crash onto the mat, the impact forcing air from my lungs and sending stars dancing across my vision. Through the haze of pain, something unexpected stirs beneath my ribs.
Something electric.
Excitement?
Adrenaline?
Through blurred vision, I see Nick’s face hovering above me, panic etched into every feature. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Can you see me?”
Despite the throbbing in my jaw, my lips curl into a crooked smile.
Then—
“What the fuck?” The voice cuts through the gym like thunder.
Dante.
He crosses the training floor in four long strides, his broad shoulders blocking the fluorescent lights overhead.
“It was an accident. She stepped into it,” Nick explains, holding up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three,” I mumble, trying to push myself upright. My arms wobble beneath me, and my fingers slide uselessly against the sweat-slick mat. My waster lies out of reach.
A hand enters my field of vision.
It’s his.
“Let me help you up,” he offers, hand extended but waiting for my permission.
“I’m okay,” I insist, though the words come out thicker than intended. My pulse pounds as Dante turns his attention back to Nick.
“An overhead strike? On a beginner?” Dante’s voice is controlled but tight with anger. I watch the muscles in his forearms tense as he steps closer to Nick. “What were you thinking?”
“She’s tougher than she looks,” Nick says, glancing at me. “Right?”
I give him a thumbs-up and reach for my weapon.
Dante’s boot presses down on the wooden blade before I can grab it. I look up, meeting his stern gaze through strands of damp hair. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts—so subtle I almost miss it. He turns back to Nick.
“You should never let her engage without gear.”
“I was just defending myself,” Nick protests, taking a defensive step back. “What was I supposed to do?”
“You don’t hit back,” Dante says flatly.
The gym falls silent, everyone’s eyes on us.
“Basic rule of instruction—you don’t strike an untrained student. You let them learn control first.”
“I’m licensed,” Nick counters, crossing his arms.
I exhale through gritted teeth. So much testosterone for so early in the morning.
Thank goodness my bodyguard, Ramsey, is doing his regular perimeter check, or I’d have yet another man arguing over me.
Through their escalating voices, I struggle to find something stable to pull myself up with. My hand connects with what I think is a wall, but warm pressure envelops my fingers. As my focus returns, I realize I’m gripping Dante’s forearm as he helps me stand. The solid strength of him momentarily disorients me. I pull my hand away, irritated with myself for noticing anything beyond my throbbing jaw.
“Hey!” I snap, wincing as pain shoots through my face. “This is unprofessional. I’m fine.” Neither man acknowledges me.
Dante steps forward, his presence commanding the space between practice mats and mirrored walls. “Licensed or not, I’m a professional fighter. I am the stunt coordinator consultant on this production.” I flinch at his authoritative tone. “I know how to train beginners without injuring them.”
“Well,” Nick sneers, “you weren’t professional enough to qualify for the Olympics this year, were you?”
A flash of genuine hurt crosses Dante’s face before it hardens into anger. This is escalating quickly.
“There will be no fighting on my movie set,” I announce, mustering as much authority as I can.
Dante turns, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “I wasn’t going to fight him.” I instinctively step back. “You should never get hurt like this during basic training,” he continues, his eyes darkening with something I’m not entirely comfortable with.
“It was an accident,” Nick mutters, looking away.
“I’m honestly fine,” I insist, though my rapid breathing might not be entirely from the adrenaline.
Or maybe it is. It’s difficult to distinguish between genuine concern and the rush that comes after being struck by someone twice your size.
Dante turns back to Nick. “Get her some ice, Mr. License.”
Nick glances at my jaw, which must be visibly swelling by now. “I’ll get you some ice. Let’s take ten.” He walks off, leaving me alone with Dante.
I huff so loudly there could be steam coming out of my nose. Don’t they get it?
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work.” I bend down to pick up my waster, but my head throbs so much I nearly topple over. I grit my teeth, swallowing a wave of dizziness. No weakness.
Dante’s foot doesn’t move. My mouth goes dry. I’m so close to his solid legs, I can see the outline of his quad strength through his sweats. “Absolutely not.”
“Excuse me?” I glance up at him. “Get your foot off my training sword.”
He stands still.
Why is he staring at me so intensely? Why do I care? Why can’t I seem to stop staring back even though there’s a roomful of people watching us? This is so not the kind of drama I want following me on set.
“Please,” I add, hating how pleading I sound.
“You should take me up on my offer and let me show you a thing or two.”
“I’m working with a professional,” I reply.
He scoffs, and a laugh escapes that seems to loosen the tightness in his shoulders, making the muscles in his neck flex. “A professional would never let this—” He reaches for my jaw, and I freeze. What is he doing? My heart hammers so loud I’m sure he can hear it. But then, as if he suddenly realizes that he’s about to touch me, his hand drops away, swiping through his hair instead. “—happen to you. Or any of the students they train. Ever.”
“It’s my fault,” I say, feeling dazed, though whether it’s from the hit or from Dante, I can’t tell. “I shouldn’t have pulled my gear off and started attacking him.”
“Most definitely not your fault.”
My body betrays me at the softness in his voice, making my breath shallow.
It must be the workout adrenaline. Definitely not the faint trace of smoke that seems to follow him everywhere he goes.
Goodness gracious, Reese!
“I’ve just—I’ve been training nonstop.” The words pile up in my throat, too heavy to hold back.“And I’m not making any progress. It’s not coming easy to me.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself. Your form is impressive for a beginner. Decent balance. Obviously determined. Sometimes that matters more than being a natural.” I’m taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. Before I can react, his mouth curves into a smirk that is both infuriating and gorgeous. “Look, I know you want to go at this on your own, but I train here, around eight, by myself. I’m happy to help you work on that sword grip.”
Cleo’s words echo in my mind. Fingers wrapped around a big, vulnerable—
No.
Absolutely not.
He swooped in here trying to be some kind of savior. Sure, it was impressive. But I’m certain he’d love nothing more than for me to thank him. The implication is heavy. And I hate how much some untamed and ridiculous part of me wants to take him up on his offer—with his talk of sword grip and training alone.
Just when I think he’s being genuine, he ruins it.
“I appreciate your offer, but I can take care of myself,” I say reluctantly, not forgetting my manners though he’s driving me up a wall.
“Suit yourself, fighter.” He shrugs, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Fighter?”
“With a mark like that, I’d say you’ve earned it.”
I nearly blush, or maybe I don’t. I can’t tell. Another trainee calls out Dante’s name, and he looks back, craning his neck so I can see the tattoo. What is it? Intricate, highly detailed artwork that has my stomach going tight again. I spin away, desperate to break the spell.
How dare he make me feel things?
With his stupid perfect hair, his stupid perfect smirk, and his stupid perfect…everything.
This is a betrayal to feminism of the highest order.
“We should both get back to work,” I say when he looks back at me—does he know I was staring?
“My cabin’s the one closest to the lake.”
“Okay?”
“Now you know where to find me,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away. “I’m at your beck and call.”
I retrieve the sword from the ground and hurry away from him and whatever strange tension was radiating between us.
Focus.
I head for the mirror, propping my weapon carefully against the nearby wall.
My hair has escaped its French braids, strands of blonde clinging wildly to my sweat-soaked neck. I imagine cutting it all off, how liberating it might feel, and the thought lingers rather than vanishes. There is a bruise already forming on my jaw. It’s an angry purple mark.
I study it, deliberately not shifting my gaze to the figure lingering behind me in the mirror.
The woman in my reflection isn’t simply pretty—she’s commanding her space, she’s tough, she makes tough choices. Maybe those choices aren’t well-thought-out, like ripping off her gear and whacking her trainer with a wooden sword. But she’s never done that before. Progress.
That’s what matters.
Not whatever that was with Dante.
Of course, my eyes shift to his reflection as he directs the other stunt performers. I can’t forget how I spent hours watching his matches on YouTube last weekend, how he seemed to dominate every match he was in.
But seeing it in person…
Focus on your bruise. Your hair. Anything else.
It’s no use. I can see why he was hired now. Not for his line delivery, but for the way he moves.
He’s in the middle of a complex fight sequence, the bandit ambush scene, facing off against four attackers at once. Mesmerizing . Each strike and defending block flow into the next like liquid mercury.
I swear a droplet of drool is hanging from the side of my mouth.
Why is the sweat on the back of his compression shirt so…attractive?
No. It’s gross.
Ew, men.
He moves again, muscles shifting as a stuntman lunges. Dante pivots seamlessly, blocking the attack while simultaneously disarming another. He shoots me a glance—none of that winking or smirking, but something heated before he looks away.
It’s like watching a deadly dance.
I need to get to that level.
Maybe his helping me wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world?
The pros are undeniable. His athletic background speaks for itself. He’s mastered his craft in a way that could elevate my performance beyond what any training with Nick could achieve.
But the cons…I’ve dealt with enough guys like him in Hollywood to recognize the warning signs. The constant flirting, that playboy reputation, the way he seems to treat everything like a game.
Can I trust someone who appears this unserious to take my training—to take me—seriously? Even if his dedication to his sport suggests otherwise, getting involved with him in any capacity feels like asking for complications I can’t afford.
I’ll master this blade, this role, this transformation. And if my heart tries to lead me astray? Well, that’s just one more opponent to defeat.