Page 43 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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When Luke leaves the hall, still dressed in his fencing kit but with his weapon abandoned on the piste, Rory nods at Finlay and says, “Check he’s okay.”

Finlay raises his head, glancing between me and Rory, before shrugging in despair and doing as instructed.

Beside me, Captain Porthos whines and nuzzles his soft furry head against my bare arm. I stroke him gently, the rhythm of his rapid breath soothing me, making me feel calmer after such a wild morning.

In detached fascination, I watch as Rory begins to strip from his fencing kit.

But then Luke’s weapon glints at me from the piste, and, boldly, I say, “Wait.”

Rory stops moving in an instant. He slides a curious glance at me. “Yes?”

Hesitantly, I approach the piste. I pick up Luke’s discarded weapon, examining the weight of it in my hand. It’s heavier than I expect, with finger grooves on the handle behind the guard and a long point that extends, from my perspective, forever.

Turning, I face Rory and bite my lip. “I want to fight.”

Rory raises a perfectly sculpted golden eyebrow. “Fightme? Do you even know how?”

I say nothing, thrusting the sword in and out of the air in front of me and slashing my invisible opponent hard enough for Rory to insist I wear protection.

Rory helps me, guiding me into large white pants and a jacket that looks exactly like his. The material is heavy and stiff, like layers of cotton wrapped around cardboard. When Rory hands me a fencing mask, there’s a bubble of excitement in my chest as I place it on top of my head.

The kit is so heavy and all-consuming that it’s as though the world falls to peace around me, the only sound in my ears my constant breath.

Through the visor, all I see are grid-like squares. The world in front of me appears almost pixelated as I view it through the fine grates of the mask.

I hold my sword — my foil, because I’m an expert now — in my gloved hand. When I launch it in Rory’s direction, he leans back and gives me an exasperated look.

“We’ll take it slow to start with,” he drawls in a pointed tone, batting away the tip of my foil and lowering his mask. He looks strangely grateful for this distraction after what just happened with Luke. “Now, fencing is a very complex sport with an intricate set of rules, so it’s importan—”

“I don’t want to fence. I just want to… play around.”

“Play around?” Rory asks, as though the very idea is alien to him. “Play around… with swords?”

“Yes. I want to do what you’ve been doing with the other chiefs. You know… Truth-or-stab.” I lunge across the piste, enjoying the tension soaring through my sleepy muscles, waking them up the way dancing usually does.

Again, Rory bats away my foil. “As you wish,” he says skeptically. Then he adds, in an annoyingly know-all tone, “Though it will be difficult to come up with so many questions when I inevitably win all the points.”

It’s irritating, but he’s right. He wins point after point, spearing me with the end of his foil before I’ve even begun to move. He’s lightning-quick and I don’t get my bearings for a long time.

Rory takes his sweet time to come up with questions for me, which allows me to practice lunging and flexing down the piste. The piste seems so much longer and narrower now that I’m on it, and it’s scary to stomp down it equipped with a weapon, knowing one wrong move could end with me tumbling to the floor.

Already, he’s asked about my life back home (boring, nothing worth talking about) and my history as a dancer (varied, mostly tragic). These are tame questions, and I have a gnawing feeling that he’s trying to warm me up.

Eventually, Rory smiles at his third question. It’s disconcerting. “Now don’t hold back on this one, but what would you say is your most favorite thing about me? I know it’ll be difficult to choose just one.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Your giant head, asshole.”

Rory laughs and moves his mask down to resume the match, but I’m not finished. Slowly, I walk across to him. It seems to take him by surprise. He watches with interest as I come closer to him, my sword dangling limply by my side.

“Your giant head, with its clever, manipulative brain. Your stupid, attractive face. Your pretty, pouting lips and your high cheekbones and your long eyelashes and your imperious English accent, like you know your voice is at the top of the food chain so you have all the freedom to swagger around like you own the damn world.” I raise my foil against the side of his body, watching avidly as he leans away from its sharp skimming side before placing it at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. “So yes. Your giant head. All of it.”

Rory glances to the side, at the blade of my foil pressed against the nape of his neck. “I believe this is an illegal move,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t sound too cut up about it. He leans forward, capturing my mouth in a hard kiss that makes our two raised fencing masks bump into each other, and he cradles the back of my head with his soft, gloved hand.

“You’re driving me fucking wild, little saint,” he groans against my lips. “I’ve never felt like this in my life, I’ve never…” He breaks away from me, rubbing his face as though to wake himself up. “You are full of witchcraft, I tell you. That must be it.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Or you’re, you know, full of hormones. That may make more sense.”

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