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“Good girl,” he purrs, kissing me passionately. I hang on to his wrists as he brings my face up to meet his.
When he rips himself back, his eyes are dazed with lust and heavy lidded. “Alright, bad idea to start something I can’t finish. Are you feeling better?”
“I am, thank you.”
“I’ll be in the front row, cheering you on at the top of my lungs. If you need support, just look at me, okay?”
“I will. Love you, Tristan.”
“I love you too, baby. Now bring home the metal.”
He smacks my ass, making me giggle, and walks out.
???
Twenty minutes later, I’m on the piste facing the French national champion and up by one point with fifteen seconds remaining on the clock.
She lunges once, then a second time, and catches me on the glove right on my wrist.
Shit.
I’m holding my breath, hoping it didn’t actually land and register when I hear the buzzer go off. The red dot lights up indicating that she scored a touch.
Fuck.
The timer stops and I throw a look at Tristan. He’s standing in the front row next to my mum. After years of refusing to support my fencing, she showed up when it mattered the most.
He’s rocking from foot to foot, arms crossed and one hand on his chin as he watches the match intently. I draw strength from seeing him, just like he said I could, and turn back towards my opponent.
I won’t let this go into extra time.
Ten seconds left to make a difference.
Ten seconds to win.
I find a burst of energy and move towards her, using my agile footwork to confuse her. I advance and retreat, I lunge angled to the right and then to the left, feigning an attack.
Our épées clash. She lunges for me, but with a flick of my wrist, I wrap around her blade and move it away from me before it can make contact.
That destabilizes her and she takes a step back.
It’s my opening.
I lunge again and again, continually advancing on her and pushing her towards her end of the piste. She’s dangerously close to stepping out of bounds and she makes a fatal mistake.
She looks down to see how close she is to the line.
It’s only a second, but it’s enough.
I dive forward into the lowest lunge possible, until my back leg is nearly flat to the ground, and angle my épée beneath hers and up, hitting her square in the chest.
I rip my mask me off and scream in victorious joy in the second before the buzzer sounds or the green light flashes, because I know.
I just won.
And then the buzzer confirms it and I get my first official taste of victory. Turns out I don’t think of my father or my mother like I thought.
I think of myself.
