But maybe the real power move is staying. Maybe it’s standing your ground when everything in you screams to get the hell out.
I could be another statistic in Em’s careful catalog of abandonments, or I could be the exception that makes her question her own math.
Not everyone leaves.
Some people stay.
Reese’s advice rings in my ears.Be kind and patient. That’s exactly what Em needs.
“Pick up your mask,” I say, walking onto the piste. Without hesitation, she joins me. “You want to stop doing drills? Show me what you got.”
For the next hour, we fence. Em’s blade rips through the air, her feet dancing across the strip with deadly precision. Our sabers crash together—parry four, riposte, remise. Through my mask, I track her every move, waiting for the tell.
Winning used to mean becoming another champagne-soaked legend, upholding the work I put into making this sport the best it could be. But what if the committee doesn’t clear me to keep fencing after my disciplinary review?
What happens then?
A reality without fencing is terrifying.
For the past month, I’ve been training Em and Reese, becoming something like a compass for them—just like Mom is for her players.
It twists in my gut, the thought of watching others claim what used to be mine. The media reduces coaches to footnotes, if they remember them at all. Do you learn to romanticize the aftermath of glory? The shift from star to spectator feels like a slow death. A glimpse into my future—another has-been fading to static.
Fencing barely registers in the cultural consciousness, though I built a brand, made them notice. But however much I hate to admit it, the sport will keep spinning, with or without me.
While I’m distracted, Em’s there, faster than she has any right to be, front foot pivoting while her back leg drives like apiston. Her saber curves under mine in some wild move that would make Lev cringe. The tip slams into my lamé.
Touch.
“Holy shit,” she pants, holding the perfect extension. “Did I just…?”
I pull off my mask, genuinely startled. “Unorthodox but brilliant. Where did you learn that?”
“I didn’t. It felt right. Like my body knew.”
My phone’s harsh alarm cuts through the moment. Time’s up.
As Em packs up, something metallic falls from her bag—a handful of security tags.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she barks, scooping up the stolen items, her eyes darting to me.
I pretend to fumble with my gear. “You want to get into those colleges?”
“I do.”
She’s talented in a way that makes my chest tight, maybe better than I was at her age. But talent isn’t everything, and I see too much of my younger self in her restlessness. “How about this? You clean up your act, and I’ll write you a recommendation letter to Princeton, straight from an alumnus and the best fencer that D1 team ever had.”
“Are you serious?”
I understand what Coach must have seen in me back then. Not just potential, but someone who needed an anchor. Maybe I could be that for her, someone who sees past the defenses to what lies beneath.
“Yes. But that also means you’re going to need to start entering tournaments.”
“And I’ve done enough lunges to do that now?”
“There’s no such thing as enough lunges. But the Southern California division holds monthly tournaments with U16categories. I’ll enter you for October’s competition—if you stop slacking off.”
She pauses at the door, adjusting her bag. “Fine.”
