Cal lowers his blade and gives the tiniest sigh. “No, with all her clothes on.Yes,naked,” he says, lowering his voice on the last word. His ears are pink now, too.
I lower my epee, and just kind of…blink at him.
There’s too much to process. Gwenna naked—my imagination can do plenty with that. AndCalwith her…
My heart does a few quick, hard pulses.
I lick my lips.
“And?” I say at last.
“And what?” Cal lowers his blade, too, eyes darting from mine to the middle of the strip between us and back again.
“Well, she…” I swallow. “First time for you, I guess?”
“Jesus.” Cal stares at me. “It wasn’t like that. She fell. Collapsed. She was tired. I heard her fall and thought she was hurt, so I?—”
“Okay, okay.” I nod and put my hands on my hips. “Was she…mad?”
Cal tips his head to the side. “Kinda. Maybe.” Now he swallows too. “I wasn’tlookingat her, but...”
But still.I’m not sure if I say the words or just think them.
Cal presses his lips together and pushes the tip of his epee into the strip. “Yeah.” He frowns, pushing the blade forward to re-curve it, suddenly intensely focused. His lips part a little as he tests it, and then lowers it again, bending it back further with his toe this time.
I’m a little spellbound, watching him.
It’s not like I justdecidedto fall in love with him.
I cringe.Why did I say that to her? Why do I let every single word that forms in my brain make its way out of my mouth?
Cal lifts his blade again, flicks it once, and the small smile of satisfaction that curves his mouth is enough to get my blood beating.
Why am I not actively ripping the whites off his chest and sliding my tongue inside that?—
“Put your masks on.”
The voice startles me out of my skin. Kingston steps across the strip, already in his whites, his own mask under his left arm and a frown on his face.
Cal looks up, too. “Kingston,” he says.
“We were just—” I start.
“Something like that on the strip,” Kingston interrupts, “could get you black carded. And safety besides. You know better.”
He’s not angry, just…well, just correct. Any partner bladework whatsoever needs a mask. No exceptions, even for sadists like Kai or lazy alternates like me. That’s how somebody gets seriously hurt.
Luther Pendragon’s son knows that better than anyone.
“Sorry,” Cal says, and bends over to pick up his mask, which he slides on his head one-handed. I go for mine too, fumblingaround by the bench where I’d left it and wedging my head inside.
Kingston nods and slips on his own. “Unplug. Dry bouts, we’ll practice reffing.” He strides over to the chalkboard on the far wall and writes our last names in each of the competitor rows.
Pendragon
O’Brian
Dell’Acqua
