9. Dante
Chapter 9
Dante
August 20th
French Fencing Star Quentin Brisbois Signs Multimillion-Dollar Stryde Sneaker Deal
My training gym has always felt like home. Today, I barely feel welcome. It’s my first session with Coach since he returned from the Olympics.
I lunge forward, sluggish. Too many late nights, too many drinks—we both know it.
“Still favoring that left leg,” Lev grunts, jabbing his saber toward my foot. The blade catches light like a warning.
Shit .
Lev Petrov, a Russian-American Olympic Saber coach, has trained me since Princeton. He’s the U.S. Men’s Saber national coach and my second father—tougher than my real dad and far more intimidating. His love expresses itself through brutal honesty and punishing workouts.
“ Bozhe moy , you think I don’t see? Hungover, reeking of cigarettes. Burnaya noch’? You party all night yet expect to fence like a champion?”
I white-knuckle my saber, swallowing the urge to lash out. Old me would’ve stormed off. Instead, I breathe, letting the familiar weight of the blade ground me.
This training is crucial. Since my suspension, I haven’t trained with my team. Lev’s been coaching everyone else, leaving me solo—it’s the longest I’ve gone without a real opponent. I’m rusty.
I’ve kept up drills in my San Francisco apartment’s training room—state-of-the-art dummy, mirrors, space to lunge—and worked with the Robyn Hood crew, but nothing replaces facing someone who breathes, moves, and thinks.
It’s about more than bad form.
It’s everything since the suspension. Lev saw past the rich party boy and made me something real. My impulsiveness—that need to be seen, to react, to fight—got me suspended.
I plant my feet wider, focusing on my burning thighs as I reset. Gotta prove I’m worth his time.
“Another gold medal turned you into a drama queen, Coach,” I say, masking the sting of his disappointment. “I’m fencing fine.”
His laugh cuts deep. “Fine? Nyet . You’re a ghost. Too slow. Where’s my champion who made this blade dance?”
Four months, and the champion is gone.
The rich kid who fucked it all up.
The disappointment.
The unlovable one.
The saber feels wrong in my hand—heavy, foreign. I adjust my grip, searching for that sweet spot where it became part of me. My throat tightens.
Inhale.
Three hundred forty-two days until the new season. Three hundred forty-two chances to prove I’m still relevant.
“Yeah, fine. That means shut up and keep going, right?”
“ Da . What else you have that’s more important?”
Nothing. Without fencing, I’m nobody. The movie set, parties, agitating Reese—all distractions. Only with a blade do I matter. Only here does my family see me as belonging among the Hastings.
Outside the piste? Different story. The Princeton crew only shows up for the Dom Pérignon. My contacts want Party Dante, not me.
My teammates ghosted me—afraid of USFA or SafeSport finding them with a suspended player. Only Linus sent a hang in there text.
The fencing world turned its back. Nobody’s risking their career by associating with me. Where do I fit when they’re all living our old life—training, competing, being champions?
I try to bury it all, but my chest constricts.
Lev’s eyes narrow with pity. Worse. “ Khorosho ,” he says, raising his blade. “Advance-lunge drills. Show me your fire can do more than burn you.”
I nod and set my stance. The world fades as I grip my saber, my mind finally quieting.
It’s just me and my blade.
I lunge—step too short. Miss by inches.
“Fuck,” I mutter, resetting.
“ Opyat ,” Coach barks. Again.
I repeat until my quads scream.
“Too slow. It’s the drinking. People expect you back stronger next season. Can’t defend your title like this.”
“I’m not drinking that much,” I lie. Maybe that stops today. Smoking’s my only other vice now—no partying, no drugs, no bodies.
Lev’s eyebrows shoot up. “ Vresh’ kak siziy merín ,” he says. You’re lying like a gray gelding.
Whatever the fuck that means.
He lowers his blade, crossing his arms. “How many years I watch you grow in this gym? Khuligan .”
“Your point?”
“My point?” Lev growls, accent thickening. “You’re always chasing cameras, media, interviews. Your teammates? All timid, focused. But you need attention. An obsession, Dante. A dangerous one.”
“I’m the most handsome guy on the team. Can’t blame the media for wanting my picture.”
“ Krasota ne vechna. But skill? Passion? These things last.” He studies me. “Why did you start fencing?”
I sigh. “You know why.”
“Tell me. I suddenly forgot, like you’ve forgotten basic forms. Moya pamyat’ uzhe ne ta .”
I snort at his games. “It was my punishment.”
“ Gluposti , Dante. Not why you keep fencing. You could quit after school, da ? But you don’t. Why? Because fencing is in your blood. Natural, like breathing. You love it, even when it hurts.”
He’s right, and I loathe him for his relentless wisdom.
He never grasped why I must embody this alter ego—the rebel, the showman. The one who effortlessly extracts smiles from strangers.
In a dynasty of overachievers—siblings flaunting their trophies, medals, and endless accolades—being merely “good” is worthless.
Alec conquers mountains. Brooklyn dominates figure skating. Cameron claimed the Premier League after a lifetime of soccer devotion. The younger ones follow suit: Ezra practically evolved gills in our Marin County compound pool. Francesca rocketed from go-karts straight to professional racing.
Childhood rendered me invisible. A phantom. Before fencing, I existed as nothing but a shadow.
Then I discovered power in attention.
It began subtly: pilfering alcohol from my parents’ cabinet, ditching classes to crash exclusive parties. Each reckless decision, each calculated risk, delivered an intoxicating high nothing else could match.
People finally noticed me. They whispered my name.
At fourteen, they expelled me for chronic truancy. That same year, I commandeered my father’s car for a joyride. Police apprehended me within fifteen minutes.
My mother’s anguish guaranteed Dad’s intervention. They’d exhausted every remedy—counselors, wilderness camps, nearly house arrest. Useless. While my siblings collected championships, I wore the mantle of family disgrace.
Following my joyride, I was shipped off to a boarding school that was renowned for reforming delinquent rich kids. Mandatory athletics offered two choices: fencing or water polo. No fucking way was I going to swallow all that chlorine.
During that first fencing practice, everything aligned. The perpetual noise in my mind silenced. I understood the blade. I mastered it. Instinctively.
Academics? Still an exercise in futility.
But fencing? Undeniable brilliance.
By fifteen, I dominated Nationals. At seventeen, Princeton offered a full scholarship to represent their Division 1 team. By twenty-two, an Olympic gold hung from my neck.
Fencing transcended sport. It became my salvation. The discipline, the precision—it forged purpose. Direction.
People carved my name into memory.
My reputation shadowed me everywhere. Rather than shed it, I amplified it. I inked my skin. I wore jewelry, started caring about how I looked in my clothes, and used my image as a weapon. I pushed cars to their limits, bought my yacht. I fucked, partied, and fenced like a god. I became fencing’s notorious bad boy in a landscape of privileged, country-club competitors.
Yes, I shared their wealth, but I cultivated difference. I ensured everyone recognized it.
The strategy triumphed. The world validated my existence. Magazine covers, lucrative endorsements, insatiable fans. Everyone craved my friendship, my affection, my rivalry. For the first time, I wasn’t someone’s brother or the family failure—I was Dante fucking Hastings.
“It was the first thing I excelled at,” I settle on. “But more than that, it made me feel whole.”
Lev nods, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “And now? Without it, you feel lost, da ?”
Yes . I swallow hard. “What if USFA doesn’t let me back on the piste come next year?”
“More gluposti ,” he scoffs, but his tone is gentle. “You will fence again.” He pauses, his eyes softening before he glances at the clock.
I lower my saber, wiping sweat off my brow. “What’s the deal, Coach? You trying to get away from me?”
“No,” he grunts, shaking his head. “I’m waiting for your charity work.”
“This lecture wasn’t enough?”
His bushy brows draw together, his face darkening. “ Nu chto… fight like dogs with SafeSport and USFA to get you only one year suspension with community service. You will do what I tell you, kapishe ?”
“What’s the plan?” I sigh, already dreading whatever he has in store.
“I start youth program here for kids without rich parents to put them in sport and hopefully get scholarships. The ones with talent but no direction. I have one who needs role model.” He fixes me with a stern look. “And speaking of direction, how is work going as stunt coordinator on movie?”
“They haven’t fired me yet,” I say carefully, avoiding any mention of Reese. Last thing I need is a lecture about professionalism from Coach’s mustached face. I’d much prefer to hear those scoldings from Reese’s soft lips instead.
“Good, good. Then you can handle this too. If you work hard there, you work hard here.” He doesn’t seem amused as he continues, “This girl I found, Dante. Shestnadtsat let . Reminds me of you when you first came here. She needs someone to show her the way. You could be that someone.”
The words hit me like a roundhouse kick to the chest. A sixteen-year-old mini-me? Fuck that. I’m barely keeping my own shit together, and Lev wants me playing mentor?
“Come on, your girl needs a real coach, not some hothead who got suspended for starting fights.”
“We both know why you did that, Dante. Even if you don’t want to say truth or let me or Linus stand up for you.” I groan at the reminder. What was the point of coming clean about the fight when I meant that hit? “You have much to offer, blin . Think about it. Sometimes, teaching others helps us remember why we love something in the first place. And this girl could benefit from someone who understands her.”
“This is one of your worst ideas,” I say.
“You underestimate yourself.” He pauses. “Plus, you have no choice.”
I set down my saber, running a hand through my hair as I consider my options. Not that I have many. It’s either play nice with Coach’s pet project or kiss my career goodbye.
But maybe this isn’t the worst thing.
Training some kid will clean up my image, turning me from hothead who got suspended into reformed bad boy who gives back to his community . That’s what the committee wanted, isn’t it? Fuck, it might impress Reese, show her I’m not the troublemaker she thinks I am.
“And how often are we talking?”
“You will work with Em every Friday at the end of our training,” he says. “She practices with the other kids in the program Monday and Wednesday, but the others go too easy, and I want her to see one of my real stars.”
“So the logical thought was to stick me with the trainwreck who’s been suspended?” A girl’s voice joins us in the room.
I turn and—Christ, Em is exactly what I was afraid of. Sixteen, half her head buzzed, thick black eyeliner like war paint. I used to armor myself the same way, all spikes and studs and fuck-you attitude, daring anyone to get close enough to see past it.
“What’s wrong? Did Hot Topic run out of safety pins?” I say with the same old defensive rhythm I perfected at family dinners of six hotheaded kids growing up.
“Go fuck yourself,” she snarls, hands clenching into fists. “At least I’m not some has-been who got kicked out of fencing for being a violent asshole. Did they take away your participation trophy when they suspended you?”
“You have some bite to you, kid.”
“I’m not a kid—”
“Ty sovsem obnaglel! ” Coach barks, his accent thickening with frustration.
“What’s he saying?” she demands.
I smirk. Not so clever now. “He says I’m a natural talent, and you should be honored.”
Coach’s weathered face darkens. “ Vrosh i dazhe ne krasneysh! I said no such thing, you little troublemaker. I said you are being rude and childish.” He turns to Em. “This one, he thinks he’s clever. Always has. Don’t trust his translations.”
“Great, so I get stuck with a liar for a sparring partner? I told you, I don’t need another training day.” Em crosses her arms, rebellion written in every line of her body. It’s the same way I used to stand, challenging the world to prove me wrong.
“You two are giving me headache already. Em, this is Dante Hastings, my most talented student. Also most difficult. Like you!”
“And this is my charity case?”
“I’m not a fucking charity case,” Em snaps. “And besides, that’s rich coming from the guy I saw in those photos. Doing lines on a yacht with Instagram models? Real role model material.”
The words catch me off guard, heat rising to my face as I catch Coach’s disapproving look. Great. Just great. I force a tight smile.
“ Zatknis , both of you!” Coach thunders, making Em jump. “Em, get equipment. Dante, stop being pridurok . You will work together, or I make you both do footwork drills until your legs fall off.”
Em stomps off to grab her gym bag, which has a few too many holes, muttering under her breath. In her angry stride and clenched fists, I see my younger self.
“This is a bad idea. She’s too much like—”
“Like you were?” Coach interrupts with a snort. “ Da , this is exactly why. You understand her fire, her pain. And maybe if you make her champion, show her discipline like I showed you, USFA will see you are more than an angry boy with sword . ”
I want to argue, but I can’t.
“Fine,” I concede. “But don’t blame me if this blows up in our faces.”
Coach smiles, that infuriating, knowing grin of his. “Sometimes the best things start with a little explosion, some big boom, da ?”
As my private jet leaves San Francisco, the city lights shrink like scattered gems.
Em is trouble. Unlike Reese’s by-the-book precision, Em’s chaotic streak feels too familiar.
Our first practice devolved into insults until Coach threatened us with sock-stuffed mouths.
Her technique is sloppy, but beneath the attitude lies a spark of genuine talent.
I don’t know why Coach paired us, but if working with her helps reverse my USFA suspension, I’ll endure it.
Even if it means dodging her wild attacks for months.
I signal to Archer, our silver-haired flight attendant who clearly wishes to be elsewhere. He’s our family’s assistant, Carlyle’s, latest attempt to keep me focused after I charmed my way through three previous attendants.
They were more amenable to distraction.
Now I’m stuck with Archer, whose scowl could curdle milk. He delivers my Manhattan and retreats, leaving me with my thoughts and the night sky.
I check my phone for a distraction, but an unsaved number catches my eye instead.
Unknown
Mr. Hastings, this is Reese Sinclair, following up as per our previous arrangement.
Attached you’ll find your scene recordings for next week’s scenes.
sherriffonguardweektwo.m4a
I save the contact under a name I know will stab at her ego: Little Fighter.
Settling back, I slip on my headphones and brace for impact.
“Hello, Mr. Hastings.” Her voice cuts like a diamond through glass. “Now, I know you probably don’t have your script in front of you, but I want you to take notes. So I’ll wait while you get it. Go on, ticktock.”
The audio goes silent. I down a burning sip of whiskey, savoring both the heat and her calculated patience.
Classic Reese.
“If your physical copy is too stained with drink rings or flecked with cigarette ash, I sent one to your email. Go on, open it.” I click into her file. “Reading while listening will help, so next time, have your script nearby. Now, for this to work, you need to repeat after me. And don’t just parrot the words—pay attention to the emotions. The sheriff is arrogant, power-hungry, and he thinks he’s untouchable. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to channel.”
I chuckle, gulping more whiskey as I surrender to my one-on-one with Reese Sinclair. I picture her sitting ramrod straight, methodically checking off her arsenal of jabs as she dissects each line.
It’s oddly endearing.
The flight to the redwoods vanishes as I let Reese’s voice consume me—half drill sergeant, half theater critic. Each barbed insult strikes with surgical precision, and damn if I don’t hang on every syllable.
Maybe I’m developing a thing for verbal abuse.
Or maybe it’s just her.
“Thank you for last night’s training session,” she says. “After you wrapped, Felix told me that I’m not moving like a robot anymore. Try not to let that inflate your already impressive ego.”
I chuckle as she clears her throat. “Now, Mr. Hastings, I have some homework for you, though I have to admit it’s purely selfish. I am an actor, after all, and I have a fighter I can take advantage of—” She pauses. “For research purposes, I mean. I expect actual answers to the following questions: What keeps you going when you’re ready to collapse? What’s your pre-competition routine? And…” There’s another pause, which makes me lean forward. “Since you play our rebellious sheriff so convincingly, tell me about your last brush with authority. I imagine you won’t have to dig too deep.
“As I said, this is strictly for character development, of course,” she adds. “Training me and mastering the script is still your priority.” Her tone shifts, taking on the edge that makes me want to push her buttons. “If at our next practice time allows, I wouldn’t mind if you showed me the leg sweep counter you demonstrated to your cohort of cronies this morning. Sunday, 8:00 p.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”
A beat of silence. “And Mr. Hastings? If you’re listening to this on Monday, you need to take this more seriously.” The recording ends with an exasperated sigh. Her irritation is starting to feel like foreplay.
I type out a text to her, but it doesn’t quite sit right. I try again. Fuck. My fingers hover over the keys as I knock back more whiskey, attempting to steady my nerves.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve got socialites and starlets practically begging for my attention, my phone constantly lighting up with flirtatious messages. So why am I sitting here like some lovesick teenager, overthinking every word?
Dante
Your voice has quite the effect on me, Professor Sinclair. Even when you’re critiquing me, I can’t help but want to hear more.
Little Fighter
Focus on the content, not the delivery, Mr. Hastings.
Dante
I’ve always been a model student, you know.
Little Fighter
I don’t believe that for a second.
Dante
Okay, you caught me. But maybe I needed the right instructor to keep me in line. And you’ve already scolded me enough to make me do my homework.
No response.
Dante
For battling exhaustion? The best cure is a mix of intense training and more intense enjoyment of life. No release valve, and you burn out fast.
Though I imagine your version of relaxing involves reorganizing your script annotations.
Little Fighter
Organization can be its own form of release.
Dante
Intriguing…
She doesn’t take the bait, so I keep going.
Dante
As for my pre-competition routine: painting my nails and visualizing victory.
If you’d like, you can follow me around for a day, get the full experience. We can end our next training session with a real lesson in unwinding.
Little Fighter
You still haven’t answered my question about your last encounter with authority.
Dante
That story requires an in-person telling. Along with the leg sweep you’re curious about.
Little Fighter
Good night, Mr. Hastings.
Dante
Break a leg at tomorrow’s premiere.
The message shows delivered. Three dots appear, then vanish. Gone, just like that. I drum my fingers against the leather seat, fighting the urge to send another message.
Something witty, something that would make her roll her eyes but smile anyway. But I resist.
The drive from the airstrip stretches endlessly, my phone a dead weight in my hand. Her cabin stands dark when I pass it. Windows black, no sign of life. She’s probably already in LA, practicing those perfect sound bites for tomorrow’s red-carpet interviews.
By the time I’m showered and in bed, there’s still no response. Not even one of her signature comebacks. Crickets chirp outside while this persistent ache in my chest refuses to subside.
It’s too quiet.
Before I can stop myself, I’m scrolling to find her voice memo again. Pathetic, really. But I click play anyway.
“Hello, Mr. Hastings.”
I close my eyes, letting myself imagine the quirk of her lips, the way she probably shook her head while recording this.
Fuck, I’m in so much trouble.
This isn’t like picking up some socialite at a charity gala or flirting with flight attendants to pass the time.
This is Reese. Brilliant, infuriating Reese Sinclair, who sees right through my carefully crafted bullshit and makes me want to let her. And that’s fucking dangerous.