“Come on, princess, this isn’t Pilates!” Nick calls out. “Stop being so delicate about it. You got this. Your body just needs to learn this the hard way—no shortcuts.”
I abandon the direct thrust and work through basic offensive and defensive techniques. Horizontal cut. Defensive parry. My arms tremble as doubt creeps in.
In mere hours, I need to embody Robyn—fierce, untouchable—for promo shots, then film an emotional scene with my character’s dying father. My lines are solid, my motivations clear. If only I could master this sword work that Nick never properly prepared me for.
Nick sighs. “Little more effort, rookie.” The nickname he’s used since day one, despite my repeated corrections. “Put those pretty arms to work.”
“Maybe I need to practice saying my lines with the movements,” I manage between breaths. “Since that’s what I’ll be doing on camera on Thursday, during our first fight scene.”
“I don’t think that’s what’s missing.”
I try anyway, raising my sword. “They’ve underestimated me—” The words catch as I perform the horizontal cut, stumbling forward. “My whole—” Another failed parry. “My whole life.”
Why can’t my brain and body connect? I can cry on command, fake trip with practiced grace, nail emotional beats perfectly—but the moment I have to deliver lines while wielding this waster I should have been training with all along? My body refuses to cooperate.
“Less talking, more practicing.” Nick suggests, lowering his waster sword.
“But I have to master saying my linesandthe choreography,” I argue, struggling to keep annoyance from overtaking my voice.
Nick frowns. “Look, sweetie, maybe you should leave some mental room to focus on those delicate little feet of yours.”
Mental room? What does that even mean?
“Argh!” I groan, my blade jolting to the side as Nick effortlessly parries my offense.
Across the room, the male actors continue their drills uninterrupted. Dante executes another flawless sequence. No one walks on eggshells around him; no one treats him like he might break at any moment. No one is calling him princess, sweetie, or rookie.
Must be nice.
“Have you given more thought to the stunt double?” Nick suggests for the hundredth time.
My stomach knots. My own trainer has lost faith in me.
“I can do it!” Heat rises in my chest, intense and persistent. I can’t breathe with this protective gear weighing me down, restricting my movement, making me feel awkward and sluggish.
“We’re not going to reach Felix’s standards at this pace.”
Something inside me breaks.
I tear off the headgear, pulling it over my head so forcefully my braid comes loose. Then I strip away the chest padding and wrist guards.
“Put that back on—” Nick starts.
But I’ve already made my move.
I advance, forcing Nick into a defensive position.
“I can’t—” I pant between strikes, my sword movements becoming more desperate with each swing. “Breathe in that—” Another slash. “Ridiculous thing!” I regain my balance after stumbling. “I can’t move!” My frustration mounts. “And these—”I growl, striking harder. “Lines—” Faster, making him retreat. “I can’t deliver my lines properly!”
Nick’s expression shifts to panic.
Let’s see who’s the amateur now.
“Reese, enough—we need a break.”
I swing again, my frustration reaching its peak. Our wooden swords connect with a sharp crack. Block, defend, thrust. My body responds instinctively now, fueled by weeks of accumulated self-doubt and criticism.
“Either train me properly—” My arms ache, but for once I’m not second-guessing my every move. The waster isn’t just a prop anymore; it’s an extension of myself. “Or get out—” I groan. “Of my way.”
