“Krasota ne vechna.But skill? Passion? These things last.” He studies me. “Why did you start fencing?”
I sigh. “You know why.”
“Tell me. I suddenly forgot, like you’ve forgotten basic forms.Moya pamyat’ uzhe ne ta.”
I snort at his games. “It was my punishment.”
“Gluposti, Dante. Not why you keep fencing. You could quit after school,da? But you don’t. Why? Because fencing is in your blood. Natural, like breathing. You love it, even when it hurts.”
He’s right, and I loathe him for his relentless wisdom.
He never grasped why I must embody this alter ego—the rebel, the showman. The one who effortlessly extracts smiles from strangers.
In a dynasty of overachievers—siblings flaunting their trophies, medals, and endless accolades—being merely “good” is worthless.
Alec conquers mountains. Brooklyn dominates figure skating. Cameron claimed the Premier League after a lifetime of soccer devotion. The younger ones follow suit: Ezra practically evolved gills in our Marin County compound pool. Francesca rocketed from go-karts straight to professional racing.
Childhood rendered me invisible. A phantom. Before fencing, I existed as nothing but a shadow.
Then I discovered power in attention.
It began subtly: pilfering alcohol from my parents’ cabinet, ditching classes to crash exclusive parties. Each reckless decision, each calculated risk, delivered an intoxicating high nothing else could match.
People finally noticed me. They whispered my name.
At fourteen, they expelled me for chronic truancy. That same year, I commandeered my father’s car for a joyride. Police apprehended me within fifteen minutes.
My mother’s anguish guaranteed Dad’s intervention. They’d exhausted every remedy—counselors, wilderness camps, nearly house arrest. Useless. While my siblings collected championships, I wore the mantle of family disgrace.
Following my joyride, I was shipped off to a boarding school that was renowned for reforming delinquent rich kids. Mandatory athletics offered two choices: fencing or water polo. No fucking way was I going to swallow all that chlorine.
During that first fencing practice, everything aligned. The perpetual noise in my mind silenced. I understood the blade. I mastered it. Instinctively.
Academics? Still an exercise in futility.
But fencing? Undeniable brilliance.
By fifteen, I dominated Nationals. At seventeen, Princeton offered a full scholarship to represent their Division 1 team. By twenty-two, an Olympic gold hung from my neck.
Fencing transcended sport. It became my salvation. The discipline, the precision—it forged purpose. Direction.
People carved my name into memory.
My reputation shadowed me everywhere. Rather than shed it, I amplified it. I inked my skin. I wore jewelry, started caring about how I looked in my clothes, and used my image as a weapon. I pushed cars to their limits, bought my yacht. I fucked, partied, and fenced like a god. I became fencing’s notorious bad boy in a landscape of privileged, country-club competitors.
Yes, I shared their wealth, but I cultivated difference. I ensured everyone recognized it.
The strategy triumphed. The world validated my existence. Magazine covers, lucrative endorsements, insatiable fans. Everyone craved my friendship, my affection, my rivalry. For the first time, I wasn’t someone’s brother or the family failure—I was Dante fucking Hastings.
“It was the first thing I excelled at,” I settle on. “But more than that, it made me feel whole.”
Lev nods, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “And now? Without it, you feel lost,da?”
Yes. I swallow hard. “What if USFA doesn’t let me back on the piste come next year?”
“Moregluposti,” he scoffs, but his tone is gentle. “You will fence again.” He pauses, his eyes softening before he glances at the clock.
I lower my saber, wiping sweat off my brow. “What’s the deal, Coach? You trying to get away from me?”
