“I’m not a fucking charity case,” Em snaps. “And besides, that’s rich coming from the guy I saw in those photos. Doing lines on a yacht with Instagram models? Real role model material.”
The words catch me off guard, heat rising to my face as I catch Coach’s disapproving look. Great.Just great.I force a tight smile.
“Zatknis, both of you!” Coach thunders, making Em jump. “Em, get equipment. Dante, stop beingpridurok. You will work together, or I make you both do footwork drills until your legs fall off.”
Em stomps off to grab her gym bag, which has a few too many holes, muttering under her breath. In her angry stride and clenched fists, I see my younger self.
“This is a bad idea. She’s too much like—”
“Like you were?” Coach interrupts with a snort. “Da, this is exactly why. You understand her fire, her pain. And maybe if you make her champion, show her discipline like I showed you, USFA will see you are more than an angry boy with sword.”
I want to argue, but I can’t.
“Fine,” I concede. “But don’t blame me if this blows up in our faces.”
Coach smiles, that infuriating, knowing grin of his. “Sometimes the best things start with a little explosion, some big boom,da?”
As my privatejet leaves San Francisco, the city lights shrink like scattered gems.
Em is trouble. Unlike Reese’s by-the-book precision, Em’s chaotic streak feels too familiar.
Our first practice devolved into insults until Coach threatened us with sock-stuffed mouths.
Her technique is sloppy, but beneath the attitude lies a spark of genuine talent.
I don’t know why Coach paired us, but if working with her helps reverse my USFA suspension, I’ll endure it.
Even if it means dodging her wild attacks for months.
I signal to Archer, our silver-haired flight attendant who clearly wishes to be elsewhere. He’s our family’s assistant, Carlyle’s, latest attempt to keep me focused after I charmed my way through three previous attendants.
They were more amenable to distraction.
Now I’m stuck with Archer, whose scowl could curdle milk. He delivers my Manhattan and retreats, leaving me with my thoughts and the night sky.
I check my phone for a distraction, but an unsaved number catches my eye instead.
Unknown
Mr. Hastings, this is Reese Sinclair, following up as per our previous arrangement.
Attached you’ll find your scene recordings for next week’s scenes.
sherriffonguardweektwo.m4a
I save the contact under a name I know will stab at her ego: Little Fighter.
Settling back, I slip on my headphones and brace for impact.
“Hello, Mr. Hastings.” Her voice cuts like a diamond through glass. “Now, I know you probably don’t have your script in front of you, but I want you to take notes. So I’ll wait while you get it. Go on, ticktock.”
The audio goes silent. I down a burning sip of whiskey, savoring both the heat and her calculated patience.
Classic Reese.
“If your physical copy is too stained with drink rings or flecked with cigarette ash, I sent one to your email. Go on, open it.” I click into her file. “Reading while listening will help, so next time, have your script nearby. Now, for this to work, you need to repeat after me. And don’t just parrot the words—pay attention to the emotions. The sheriff is arrogant, power-hungry, and he thinks he’s untouchable. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to channel.”
I chuckle, gulping more whiskey as I surrender to my one-on-one with Reese Sinclair. I picture her sitting ramrod straight, methodically checking off her arsenal of jabs as she dissects each line.
