35. Dante
Chapter 35
Dante
October 17th
INDUSTRY BUZZ: Robyn Hood Controversy—Sinclair’s Edgy Makeover Pushing Boundaries Too Far?
O ctober 17th
Sinclair Bossy? Hastings Reduced to Personal Bag Boy?
October 17th
Dante Hastings Faces Setback After Rumored Girlfriend’s Recent Press. Does the Olympic Team Really Need Him Anyway?
“Left, Em, your left!” I shout into my phone, gripping the steering wheel. “Christ, Coach, I’m getting an intimate view of your mustache here.”
The FaceTime screen wobbles like a drunk person trying to walk a straight line.
“I am coach, not Scorsese,” he grumbles, his accent thick as concrete. “You want fancy camera work, call your Hollywood friends.”
“Just hand it to Sadie, for God’s sake.” Sadie’s another one of Coach’s misfit kids turned fencer.
I’m stuck outside the fucking high school gym, parked in the lot like some creep. I know how weird it looks—a grown man sitting outside a teenage fencing meet, staring at his phone—but there was no way I was missing her first competition.
Watching Em evolve from an angry kid into someone with real focus shifted something in me. Maybe if she does well, it’ll help me too. I am the one making her great, after all. She could do what I did for fencing, but for the women’s team.
My legacy.
I look back at the gift I bought her. Regardless of whether or not she wins, she’ll need proper gear. No more hand-me-downs.
On screen, Em resets.
It’s 12–13. Em’s losing, and I’m developing an eye twitch.
Her stance is solid. Knees bent. Weight balanced—like I’ve hammered into her skull approximately ten thousand times. Her opponent mirrors her.
With Saber, there’s no room for hesitation. Just pure speed and timing. One millisecond, and boom—everything changes.
The buzzer screams when you land a hit. But if both strike simultaneously, it’s up to the refs to sort out who had right-of-way.
“She’s getting sloppy with her bends!” I yell into my phone. “Her riposte’s dragging like it’s weighted down.”
“Dante, tishe !” Coach barks, treating the phone camera like some alien technology he’s encountering for the first time. “She is doing all she can. Just watch.”
I grind my teeth.
12–14. One more point, and it’s over.
“Get her over here,” I demand. This is exactly why I needed to be in the fucking gym. She needs me.
“I cannot do that, Dante.” Coach’s voice crackles through the speaker.
I bellow for Em like a deranged sports dad who’s had seventeen espressos. She materializes on screen, mask off, looking like she’s run through a car wash. Her hair is stuck to her forehead in sweaty clumps, her face the color of a ripe tomato.
“Listen carefully—she’s anticipating your riposte. Fake the parry, then catch her on the advance. Remember that drill we did last week? Quick wrist, light touch. You’ve got this.”
“You’re making me look mental,” Em mutters, ducking her head. “The refs are going to punish me for all your yelling.”
“Focus! Use the speed I know you have. Draw her in, then strike. Trust your instincts, and don’t be hasty.”
“Ma’am!” The tournament official appears like an avenging angel, clipboard clutched to chest. “No phone communication during matches. This is your only warning.”
“Sorry!” Em laughs.
Coach Lev’s bushy brows fill the screen. “Dante, you will get her disqualified!”
“Fine, Christ, make sure she—”
“No more back-seat coaching!” Coach’s nostril looms into view, effectively ending the conversation.
Her grip resets, and she adds that cocky little twist she does as a signature. Silence descends over the gym.
The referee’s hand rises. “ En garde .”
Like a coiled spring, Em drops into her stance. Her blade hovers. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, her mask gleams—and suddenly I’m up there with her, sixteen again and facing my own moment of truth.
Her opponent strikes first. Too eager. Too confident of victory. A rookie’s mistake.
Em moves like lightning. When the other girl tries to counter, Em is faster, whipping her blade up like a striking cobra. Hit to the mask. Beautiful. The crowd gasps collectively.
13–14. The comeback starts now.
Coach mutters a prayer in Russian. Sadie’s probably stopped breathing entirely. Am I breathing? My hands grip the phone tighter, pressing it closer to my face as if I could force myself through the screen.
Em is locked in. I know this look. I’ve worn it myself. Let them think they’ve won. Let them get sloppy. Then take everything.
“Fence!”
Her opponent lunges. Em dodges, stepping out of reach like we practiced a hundred times.
The other girl hesitates—too long. Too late. Em strikes. The blade moves so fast it’s a silver blur in the air.
14–14.
Match point.
Reset. One more, Em.
Her opponent launches a desperate attack, lunging deep. But Em reads the movement perfectly. In one fluid motion, she sidesteps, blade snapping down to catch her opponent’s wrist.
The buzzer wails.
15–14.
I punch the roof of my Range Rover, raw adrenaline coursing through my veins. “FUCK YEAH, EM!”
The phone spins as Coach bellows, “ MOLODETS !” and Sadie’s screams pierce the mayhem. Through the chaos, Em turns toward the camera, raising her mask with a triumphant grin. I send a text to Reese.
Dante
Em dominated her first tournament!
I’m so damn proud right now I can barely contain myself.
Little Fighter
AHHH!! I KNEW she would! The way you’ve been mentoring her is incredible! Can’t wait to hear every single detail during Sunday choreo.
Dante
Thank you for helping me pick out her gear.
Little Fighter
Send me pics of her reaction!
Got to go, Mari is calling for us.
All the practices, the countless drills, and every hard-earned lesson come together. This determined student, who started as part of my community service, has grown into a true athlete.
She fucking did it. My very own champion.
Em’s parents didn’t show, like they said they wouldn’t. Not even after she texted them to let them know she won.
They wouldn’t even come to pick her up from the high school gym.
Assholes.
That’s how we ended up at In-N-Out. The moment I suggested it, her whole face lit up.
A Double-Double Animal Style can do that to a person.
“What are my champions having today?” Coach rubs his hands together like he’s plotting something.
“I’ll have—” Em starts, but I cut her off with a grin.
“Let me guess, chocolate shake, Double-Double Animal Style, and fries drowning in sauce?” I tease. Em sticks her tongue out at me.
“And Mr. Fancy here wants his protein style,” Coach chuckles, already pulling out his wallet. I reach for mine, but he waves me off with his signature scowl that’s actually a smile. “Put it away before I make you do extra drills. You two will always be my kids, even if one of you is turning into a big-shot movie star. Now go find us a seat.”
As Coach stands in line, Em slides into one of the plastic red booths.
“Hold on, I need to grab something from my car.” I head outside and retrieve her gift from the back seat, opting to leave the saber back there. What is it they always say? Don’t bring a fencing sword to a fast-casual burger joint.
When I return, I sit across from her, handing her the box. “Here. For dominating the tournament like the champion you are.”
Em’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but her lips twitch upward. “What did you do?”
“Just open it before I change my mind and keep it for myself.”
She lifts out the competition uniform. Her face betrays nothing at first, maintaining that blankness that’s particular to teenagers who’ve learned too early to guard their emotions. “New saber in my car too. Didn’t want to get arrested for bringing a sword inside.”
“I can’t—this is too—” she stutters, shutting the box and letting her hair fall into her face.
“You can, and you will,” I cut in. “Champions deserve champion-level gear, not hand-me-downs.”
She runs her fingers over the collar. “Thanks, Coach.”
She freezes, the word hanging between us.
Coach.
“Forget I said anything.”
“You called me Coach.”
“Stop it. Your face is getting all mushy.” She rolls her eyes. “I can’t be seen with you when you’re being sentimental.”
“Show some respect to your elders. Or I’ll pull a page out of Lev’s playbook and make you do footwork drills until your legs fall off.”
Coach returns, sliding red trays filled with burgers and fries in front of us.
Delight settles in my chest—right before Em ruins it by grabbing a fry and chucking it at my head. Coach rolls his eyes and ignores us, too busy inhaling his 4x4.
“You know, you’re a spitting image of my sister, Frankie. She’s a pain in the ass, like you,” I laugh, picking up my burger.
“I didn’t think anyone actually ordered that.” She eyes my lettuce-wrapped beef.
“You don’t get muscles like mine without some vegetables.” She snorts, already halfway through her burger. “You keep winning tournaments like this, you may have scouts looking at you next spring,” I say.
“I’m leaning towards Princeton.”
“Smart kid.”
“Are you sure you’ll have time to write me a letter of rec? Or are you and Hollywood gonna be too busy being all famous and stuff?”
That’s what she calls Reese. Hollywood.
Being back on set feels different now than it did before Felix quit. Reese and I train together and sneak back and forth between each other’s cabins after wrap.
Neither of us asks to stay the night. Probably safer that way.
The intimacy between us is new. Not only for me, but for her as well. I cook while she works the knots from my shoulders. It’s domestic. Maybe pedestrian, but it’s growing on me.
Knowing she’s there. When my thoughts get dark, when I’d seek other vices in the past, I can just fucking be with her.
“She actually picked out the saber in my car for you. Wants a photo of you with it.”
Em makes a gagging noise. “Gross, you two are disgustingly cute. But…tell her thanks, I guess.”
Coach manages to take a breath from his burger and glare at me.
I’m thankful Em is here so I don’t get another scolding.
Though I’m in a perfect fucking bubble on set, the press hasn’t been doing me any favors recently. Old photos resurfacing. Painting Reese and me in a bad light. I thought I had it under control, but things are getting out of hand.
I can’t deny it any longer.
I have more wins in me, and I want to get my sponsors back. Em’s counting on me. The kids at the youth program too.
But now the media’s fucking it up.
I agreed to help Reese because it was important to her—and fuck if that mess with Susan isn’t still nagging at me, the mess with all of the reporters who are hounding us—but our appearances have evolved into something that could destroy everything I’ve built.
We claimed it would benefit us both. Now I’m not so sure.
I shake the thought away and look at Em.
“One win down. You ready for more?”
Her smile falters. “Yeah, I wish—”
She doesn’t say it, but I know she wants her parents to be there for her. However complicated things are between them.
“That’s not on you, Em.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She tries to play it off, but I see it—the way her eyes flicker, her shoulders tensing like a drawn bow.
I make a silent promise to be at every match, the way my parents were for me. The thought lands somewhere between gratitude and grief.
Is this what it means to inherit someone else’s wounds and carry them like they’re your own? Or maybe this is simply the fact that all the shit I thought was important—the image, the notoriety, the recognition—doesn’t feel nearly as right as being there for the people who are counting on me?