Page 89 of The Retreat

I advance off the line, a calm coming over me I only find in a match. Nothing else in the world matters when I’m on the strip. The French fighter does not move, letting me come to him. A strange strategy, but normal for him. I’d gone over and over every match of his for the last day.

He springs forward when I get close, but I’m ready for it, landing the first point with an easy thrust. He usually saves that move for much later in a match, which tells me he’s underestimated me.

Glee spikes through my bloodstream, and it’s better than nearly anything else. Better than sex—but I realize that’s not true.

My head spins as we return to the line.

I like sex. What does that mean? How had I not realized before we’d left? Or the first two days of the tourney.

The ref calls for us to go again, but I’m paralyzed inside my head.

The crowd screams, and I force sex out of my head. I’ve prepared too much for this to blow it all because I’m having a crisis over my sexuality.

I blow out a breath and come off the line just in time to meet his attack. I parry and throw his blade to the side with the force. He throws himself forward angrily, barely brushing me with his blade.

Fuck.

We reset, and I glance at the clock. This time we both leap off the line, and he gets another touch, getting the point.

I suck in air through my teeth. My footwork is fucked. I’m too heavy on my feet. He comes at me, and I repost, catching him with a flick of my wrist.

He dives forward, nearly into the split, reacting with his tip. I suck in, barely getting out of the way of his point. Side stepping with a deflect, I get the touch before he can recover.

It gives me the right of way to make up the point. He throws himself at me as soon as we come off the line. I parry and try to repost, but he gets a dirty touch, glancing off my side, so light I didn’t even feel it.

I pull off my helmet as we reposition, wiping the sweat from my brow. I close my eyes, refocusing, evening out my breathing. This time I don’t come off the line, letting him come to me. I use his move, and jump forward into a lunge when he gets close enough, getting the touch.

We go back-and-forth trading touches and points. He goes up two points, then three. His next touch wins. I cannot let him have it without scoring at least two more points. I get my first touch and then a point, but he takes the right of way, and I have to get it back before he can score. We collide, sabres hitting, and I spin my blade around his, flicking my wrist to knock his blade out of the way to drive in for the touch.

He growls through his teeth.

Angry.

Good.

Right where I want him.

I come off the line quickly, needing to capitalize on it. I get another point, leaving me only one behind. I throw myself at him, more aggressively than I normally fight, and he retreats, blocking blow after blow after blow, but I get another touch and the point, making us even.

Sudden death.

My world focuses in, and I go after him, only the point mattering. He charges, and I dodge, parry another hit and barely drive my tip under his arm, catching a glancing blow off his arm pit.

I won! I can’t believe it, but before I can enjoy it, he throws his helmet down, asking for a review, stalling my victory.

I take a few breaths, readying myself to have the point overturned. It doesn’t matter. I can get another. We wait on bated breath as the refs huddle around a tiny screen. They whisper back and forth and then come over to make their announcement.

The point stands.

I won.

I WON.

I can’t breathe. My coach and teammates are hugging me, jumping up and down. It’s not like it’s a huge thing, but the way the other guys on the team are so happy for me, feels like I finally fit in.

Colin appears, and the smile on his face kills me. I grab him and drag him to me, kissing him hard before I even realize what I’m doing.

THIRTY

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