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!”
