48. Dante
Chapter 48
Dante
The jet landed in Denver last night, the bitter December cold hitting us like a wall as we stepped off the plane. The drive to Colorado Springs was treacherous.
Since that night with Amara at the club eleven days ago, I’ve cleaned up my act. Stopped drinking, stopped partying, getting back into that competitive mentality. Staying offline, focusing on what matters. Today’s hearing with the USFA committee will determine whether I can attend Em’s upcoming matches despite my suspension. The stack of proof of my coaching and clean drug tests feels heavy in my briefcase.
Back in California, I’d have known exactly how to play this. The ghost of everything that’s left back there—Reese, what we could’ve had—haunts the edges of my thoughts, but I push it aside. Focus.
My suit feels like a costume, and I’m sweating despite the freezing temperature outside. The committee members sit opposite me, Coach, Todd, and Em—whose absent parents gave her their permission to join us for this hearing—arranging laptops and papers with methodical precision. The USFA headquarters is all glass and concrete against snowcapped peaks.
I’d told the family to stay away; their particular brand of wealthy influence would only complicate things here.
With Em’s tournament schedule getting busier and more intense, coaching her through FaceTime calls is no longer enough, especially with college scouts attending upcoming tournaments. She needs in-person guidance and support at her matches.
They’re all positioned around me like some protective geometry.
Everything rides on this. Em’s shot at something real, and my chance to prove I’m not just another trust fund kid who’s pissed it all away.
“Well, well. Mr. Hastings.” Committee Head Richard Thompson leans forward, his chair protesting beneath him. Light glints off his wire-rimmed glasses like warning signals. “Five months left of your suspension, and you’re pushing boundaries?”
The panel stirs, exchanging meaningful glances.
He continues, “A year, Hastings. That was the deal. Not whenever you feel like staging a dramatic return.”
“With respect, sir,” I say, “I’m not here to contest the review timeline. I understand those terms stand. But I have a different proposition entirely.”
Anna Rusu, legendary Moldavian women’s Saber champion, sits to Thompson’s left. “We’re midseason and two days before New Year’s, Mr. Hastings,” she says. “And some of us had to reschedule actual training sessions to be here. What exactly are you hoping to achieve?”
I bite back the sarcastic retort dancing on my tongue.
“Look,” I explain. “I’m not here asking for forgiveness or trying to score points for my review. These kids—Em, the whole crew from Lev’s program—are important to me. All I want is to be there, on the sidelines, watching them grow into the champions I know they can be. The champions I’ve been training them to become.”
Coach surges forward. “Bah! This boy, he practically lives at my gym now. Three, four days a week, sometimes more. The way he coaches these kids…” His weathered hands paint pictures in the air. “Is something special.”
Anna’s face hardens like steel. “We’re not here to do more favors for your pet project, Lev.”
Thompson’s stare could freeze Hell itself. “Red Bull might sing your praises, but corporate gold won’t buy you redemption here. We don’t take bribes, Mr. Hastings.”
“Of course not,” I say, a hint of my old smirk playing at my lips. “Though honestly, you might want to reconsider that policy.”
“Mr. Hastings. Since your suspension, your actions tell a clear story—and it’s not one of redemption. Instead of showing reform, you’ve been living it up in Hollywood, grabbing headlines with celebrities and keeping yourself in the spotlight. Sure, there are the clean drug tests and records of your training, but it’s not enough to clean up your public image.”
The headlines flash through my mind, each one a fresh wound. But I think about what Reese would do now. Her Women in Media speech from four days ago is fresh on my mind.
Just be yourself, be honest.
Be Dante. Just Dante.
“You’re right,” I admit. “After the suspension, I spiraled. Wanted to stay relevant. Keep myself visible. Make those headlines dominate the year’s discourse. Classic self-destruction.” I pause, running a hand through my hair. “I hurt people. People I gave a shit about. But that’s not why we’re here.” I glance at Em, her presence a reminder of promises I can’t break, of the kids in the youth program who need someone to prove that change is possible.
“Here’s my offer,” I continue, watching Thompson’s expression carefully. “Extend my competition suspension for another season. But let me expand the youth program—full-time, pro bono. And let me attend their competitions as their coach.”
“Coach, you can’t—” Em interjects, but I silence her with a sharp look.
“The U.S. Fencing team proved themselves without me. Took gold, even. But let’s be honest here: I’m still one of the best this country’s got. If my reputation is too smeared to let me back on the piste, then let these kids benefit from my level of training.”
Coach lurches to his feet, chair screeching against the floor. “Madness! You have more medals to take, not throw away your—”
I ignore him and look back at the committee. “You want proof of change? Here it is: my career, my reputation, everything on the line for the betterment of the sport. Besides, where else will you find someone as decorated as me who’s willing to work for free?”
The silence weighs more than any medal I’ve ever worn. This time, I don’t flinch.
Em’s palm slams against the table. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit Dante’s an ass—”
“Not now, Em,” I growl through gritted teeth.
“ Tiho! ” Coach barks at her.
“Let me finish,” Em insists. “Sure, he’s got a big ego, and he’s insufferably pretentious. But he’s also the best damn coach I’ve ever had. The only coach I’ve ever had. He doesn’t just teach moves; he gets it. Gets what it’s like when everyone’s waiting for you to crash and burn. Gets what it means to care for someone.”
She takes a breath, and I see that familiar fire in her eyes. “Five months ago, I was ready to quit. Now I’m winning competitions I couldn’t imagine entering before, and it’s all because of this idiot screaming at me over video call, helping me land touches. And it’s not just me—there’s kids at the gym who couldn’t afford private lessons, who’d never held a saber before. Dante works with all of them. Stays late. Comes in early. He cares. Actually cares. Which, trust me, surprised me more than anyone.”
The committee members exchange glances, their faces unreadable. Thompson’s voice cuts through the tension: “We’ll deliberate. Please wait outside.”
We walk out of the conference room, and the door closes behind us. The hallway feels like a cage. Coach stalks back and forth, his boots clicking against the tile. Without warning, he whirls on me, face red with fury.
“Another season? Have you lost your mind?”
“Coach, I can explain—” The words die in my throat as he jabs a finger in my face.
“Explain? EXPLAIN? You throw away everything—your career, your future—like yesterday’s garbage! For what?”
“We’re talking millions in potential deals,” Todd says. “You’ve already turned down the Versace campaign—”
“Because it was contingent on exploiting my relationship with Reese,” I cut him off. “Either they want me for my talent, or they don’t get me at all. I’m done playing that game.”
“Who cares about Versace? Fancy clothes cannot hide empty soul.”
Todd scowls at Coach.
I chime in, “They’ll never extend my suspension. It’s a desperate play, and we all know it.”
“Guys, shut up!” Em hisses, pressing her ear to the door. “I can’t hear anything!”
Coach swoops over, yanking Em away from her eavesdropping. “Emily!” he thunders. “This is not James Bond movie!”
“I was just—”
“ Nyet! Sit! ” He spins back to me, eyes blazing. “And you—if committee says yes, I will destroy you. Triple—no, quadruple conditioning. No mercy.”
I can’t help but smile. “Here’s hoping I can still afford protein shakes without sponsors.”
The joke falls flat, heavy with truth. We all know what’s at stake.
My phone buzzes—messages from everyone except the one person I want to hear from. Reese. But how would she know I’m here? I open Mom’s text instead.
Mom
Any news?
Dante
Still in limbo.
Mom
We’re proud of you, sweetheart.
After what feels like an eternity, the conference room door creaks open. Thompson’s face gives nothing away as he beckons us back in. My stomach drops—I’ve never felt more aware of how one moment could destroy everything. Em’s gnawing her nails raw, Coach’s brow is furrowed deep enough to plant crops in, and Todd’s worrying his tie.
Once we’re seated, Thompson clears his throat. “Mr. Hastings, after careful consideration…” He pauses. The bastard actually pauses. “You will be permitted to coach through your suspension period.”
The relief hits like a tidal wave. Em’s eyes light up.
“Furthermore,” Thompson continues, “we see no reason to extend your competition ban.” He holds up a hand as Coach starts to speak. “Your abilities are…exceptional. The sport needs athletes like you. However”—his eyes narrow—“SafeSport protocols remain in effect until the prescribed date. Stay clean, stay quiet, and the disciplinary review should go smoothly.”
Coach explodes with joy. “ SLAVA BOGU! MOLODETS! ”
Em launches herself across the room with a shriek of delight, nearly tackling Coach in a hug. “We did it! We actually did it!”
Anna Rusu’s sharp voice cuts through the celebration. “Are we clear, Mr. Hastings?”
“Crystal.”
Gratitude washes over me, but underneath there’s a familiar pull that whispers about celebration. About losing myself in the artificial brightness of downtown Denver, chasing the chemical certainty that used to make everything make sense.
Thirteen days since I last saw Reese, and the urge to obliterate myself with something stronger than winning sits heavy in my chest. Her words loop in my head like a bad song: I think you can do anything you want.
I look at Em’s face and watch Coach’s expression. Something shifts, settles. This isn’t about me anymore—or maybe it is, but in a way that matters.
For the first time, I’ve got something solid to grip onto. Not the hollow promises of bodies or PR or the next big win.
Something real. Something Reese saw in me before I could see it myself.
As we drive back to our hotel, Todd at the wheel, my new troupe singing along to the French house music blaring through our rental car, I take out my phone and start deleting numbers.The ones that represent everything I’m trying to leave behind. They disappear in quick succession: dealers, enablers, all those people who were never people to begin with, just avatars of my worst impulses.
Training starts at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow. Em and the rest of the kids deserve someone who shows up fully present.
Little Fighter
Hey Mari told me you’re going to be able to go to Em’s meets. Congratulations! Those kids are so lucky to have you.
Thank you for giving me space. I’d love to talk in a couple days. Are you free New Years Day?
Dante
Thank you.
Give me a time and a place and I’ll be there.
Little Fighter
My house in LA at 1pm?
Dante
See you then.