“The United States Fencing Association takes misconduct seriously. No attending matches, no participating in matches, no fencing for one whole year.”
“But you’ll get to fence again, right?” I can’t imagine being forced to step away from acting.
“I have to petition the disciplinary committee next spring and prove to them I’ve been on good behavior. Got off easy though, if I’m honest. Being one of the top fencers helped, and Coach pulled strings until they reduced it to a year and some community service bullshit.”
“Community service? How very bad boy of you,” I tease, hoping it will loosen his jaw, which is clenched so tightly he may break a molar.
“Coach has me teaching this kid, Em, on Fridays. She’s insufferable, all teenage angst and rolled eyes, hates the discipline of it all.”
“This Em sounds like someone else I’m getting to know.”
“Hardly,” he huffs. “It’s so strange. I never thought I’d be a trainer or a coach. I’m not exactly the role model type.”
“You don’t say.”
He bumps my shoulder, and my skin is alight in goose bumps when he continues, “My mom’s a coach. She played on the Houston Comets, winning three championships. Now she pretends it’s her grand calling or whatever, but I think she’s trying to convince herself she’s found meaning after the glory days.”
He speaks so openly, no jokes or façade. It’s refreshing.
“Coaches are like directors, you know? They create legacies. A lot of people don’t know their names, but they decide if the film or their athletes turn out good or not. Once they’re ready to hang up their hat, they get to pass on their knowledge. It’s not all bad.”
He looks away. “Yeah, well, following her footsteps into coaching? That’s too conventional for my taste. Maybe I’ll inherit my father’s work ethic, though with my dyslexia I doubt I have another Viggle empire in me.”
“I think you can do anything you want. Be kind and patient with Em, like you have been with me, and she’ll warm up to you in no time.”
“Thank you, Reese.”
I sense he wants to change the subject. “So, are you and your teammate…?”
“Ancient history. A fleeting thing, like usual. What happened with Quentin wasn’t about that; it was about choices. Everyone deserves to write their own story.”
“That’s admirable. You know, I’ve never…” I try to find the word.Interested? Captivated by?Maybe mildly obsessed with?“Uh,shared biscuitswith anyone who’s openly…” I trail off.
“Interested in womenandmen?”
When I nod, he shifts closer, pulling at his gray hoodie.
“I don’t like labels. To me, people are people, and enjoying them is part of life. It’s another part of who I am. Like fencing or”—his eyes lock onto mine with predatory focus—“having an overprotective streak. Does it bother you?”
“No! Absolutely not,” I confess. Heat floods my cheeks as I recover my composure. “I mean, where I grew up, people didn’t talk about these things.” My fingers trace nervous patterns on the sun-warmed hood, buying time. “Actually…” I hesitate, then offer my own vulnerability like a peace offering. “My best friend Cleo was my first kiss.”
“Yeah?”
“I was fifteen,” I admit. “The studio was pushing for on-screen romance plots. I didn’t want my first kiss to be with some twenty-something actor pretending to be sixteen. So, Cleo and I made a pact—something real, just for us. Not for the cameras.”
“Smart girl. Having your firsts stolen from you isn’t right.”
“That’s Hollywood for you; they steal all your firsts.” I gather my courage. “My first love was no different.”
He narrows his eyes. “Was it that guy, Ricky something?”
I nod. “Ricky Tribbiani. My first real boyfriend.”
“There’s a but, isn’t there?”
“We were the media’s it couple. Then I got an award for the movie we shot together, and he didn’t…” I curl my fingers against the metal. “Stole away my first moment winning an award. Had to make it about himself.” I cut myself off, the old wound still raw.
“Fuck him.” The words come out as a growl.
