“And oh, one last thing. Please forgive me for my language here, but…” I pause, standing taller and readying myself to say the one thing I’ve never said out loud: “I’m proud to be Reese fucking Sinclair.”
Chapter 48
Dante
The jet landedin 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 thechampions 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.JustDante.
“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.”
