Tension
French
Be at the sports hall tonight. 8pm. Do NOT be late, French.
It was 8:03 when I finally parked at the college sports hall and checked my phone. Striker’s last message glared at me disapprovingly, while my latest message to him remained unread.
Sorry, running late. I’m having a day.
Grabbing my gym bag from the passenger’s seat and sword from the footwell, I made my way towards the dark building. It looked like it had been locked up for the night, all the staff and students heading home early on a Sunday to get ready for a new week tomorrow. The early winter’s darkness pressed in around me, and I regretted forgetting a jacket in my haste to get here as soon as I could.
I followed earlier instructions, walking around the side of the building, and found light spilling out onto the dark asphalt from an open door. My heart skipped a beat, and I allowed myself to hope that Striker had not simply given up on me and headed home. Slipping into the sports hall, I saw Striker in his white fencing gear, standing in the middle of a piste, looking up at the large clock on the wall. His back to me.
“Four minutes late, French. I can’t say I’m impressed. Shut the door.”
The captain of the dancing club turned to face me. His dark eyes slammed me with a glare that tore right through me. A broad chest rose and fell slowly with deep, deliberate breaths under an open jacket. His square jaw was clenched tightly, making the muscles around the outside pop out furiously.
I did as instructed, and began to make my way across the large, open space towards the women’s changing rooms. The hall wasn’t specifically designed for fencing, but was wide enough to accommodate for the forty-six foot long rubber mat I was to be trained upon that night. Striker had already set up all the electronic score counting equipment. A small box with an LED display on the floor off the centre of the piste, and two retractable spools of wire at either end of the mat. He was already plugged in and connected to the equipment, his sword held loosely in a gloved left hand.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I began, ” I got end of semester exams an -”
“Where do you think you are going?” barked Striker, his deep voice echoing back at me from all angles of the empty hall.
“To the changing rooms, to get changed?” I said, sounding like I was asking for his permission.
It was denied.
“Fucking freshmen,” he hissed, talking at me and not to me, “give them an opportunity to train with a Goddamn Olympian and all they do is waste your time. Enough of this, I’m out. Good luck against Dartmouth next week, French.”
Ace Striker. With a name like that, the man was destined for greatness. He almost achieved that two years ago when he won a silver medal for America at the Olympics. Now he was studying for a Master’s degree while leading the college fencing club. He was an expert with all three blades, foil, épée, and sabre, and had his sights on taking gold at the next games. Having seen him against our men’s team, I truly believed he would win that medal.
Our women’s team lost our épéeist when she twisted her ankle a week earlier. Striker had personally selected me to take her place. I was new, barely two months into college and learning how to fence. Other team members said I was impressive, but there was no way I was competition-ready. Everyone knew it, especially me. But Striker said that I had potential. He would teach me not only how to duel, but how to win.
And now, he was unclipping himself from the electronic scoring system and heading home. My heart sank as the fear of embarrassing the team settled into my stomach.
“No, Striker. Stop. Don’t leave. I need you to teach me. I have done everything you said this week. Morning stretches. Cardio three times a day. I’ve eaten better, started lifting weights. But I need piste time with you. Please don’t leave.”
Striker slowed himself down, but didn’t stop.
“Why shouldn’t I go home? Convince me.”
“I want to win,” I said, almost adding - for you - before my brain realised how terribly pathetic that sounded.
Striker rolled his eyes at me, his thin lips pressing tighter.
“I don’t want to just win, Ace. I want to win. I want to leave my opponent stunned at what I can do while I unpick them point by point. I watch you do that every week with the team, and I want that. I will do anything for it.”
Striker’s smile spread from ear to ear. He was the very image of a contented nobleman content with his subordinate. The weight of my heart lessened a little.
“See, I knew there was something to you. I can see the fire inside you, Millie French. It’s just embers at the moment, but I want to see it blaze. If you follow my instructions, I will turn you into an inferno. Is that what you want?”
I nodded, not trusting my mouth to avoid saying something embarrassing.
Without taking his eyes off me, Striker began to plug himself back into the scoring system.
“Good, now get changed. Right there. We have no time to waste”.
Right here?
He wanted me to strip to my underwear in the middle of a freezing hall. I knew there was no one else but us in the building. But the thought of stripping in front of him felt -
The heat between my legs began almost immediately. A slow, rolling warmth that quickened my breath by a pace. Was Striker getting off at the thought of me standing nearly naked before him? I glanced at his cock, half expecting to see a hard bulge in his breeches. There wasn’t one, although the tight, heavy, cotton pants left little to the imagination.
No, I assured myself. Striker isn’t into me. He just wants to train me. He’s a professional Sportsman after all. I bet he has seen it all before. My heat spread down my legs at the thought of him partying with women from all over the world at the Olympic Village in two years. All of them perfect, wearing tight athletic wear with their names and countries printed on it. Their bodies living representations of Greek goddesses, amped up on excitement and anxiety.
How could I even compare to them? I was just a nineteen-year-old art student from Ohio, after all.
Maybe I was just an art student, but I was also one who wanted to be the best fencer at this college.
Dropping my bag, I pulled my t-shirt up and over my head. Before it hit the floor, I was already unbuttoning my pants. Shoes off next. If Striker was watching me stand there in my black panties and sports bra, I did not care. I only hoped he could not see the wet spot between my legs as I bent and unzipped my bag.
The frigid air cut at my skin and my warmth became uncomfortably cold and present. I could feel my nipples hardening with the exposure. I threw my base layer over my top half, the elastic fabric constricting around me. Breeches next, pulling the white cotton pants up until they rode high and slipping the suspenders over my shoulders. The plastron followed. A kind of heavy, one-sleeved t-shirt designed to offer extra protection against the tip of a sword. Finally, I stepped into the thick jacket. I pulled it up so that the bottom fabric nestled into my crotch. Sliding each arm into the correct sleeve, I could feel myself already warming up. I knew in the summer, the dense material would have me feeling far too hot as I sweated enough already in it as I moved. Shoes on, gloves on, and mask in hand, I faced Striker.
“That was quick,” he said, then pointed towards my end of the piste with his épée. “Go on, get going”.
I said nothing and scooped my own sword from the floor. I had learnt that there were three different swords used for fencing. A foil was the standard sword everyone thinks about when they picture fencing. A saber is a slightly curved blade that feels more like using a whip than a sword.
Each of those swords came with its own rules on where to strike someone. Too many rules for my liking. That’s where épée was different. So long as you poked someone with the tip of the sword hard enough to depress the little button for the electronic system to register the score, any hit was legal. The downside was that épée was the heaviest blade to use, which made moving the sword a little slow and cumbersome. Though, someone as good as Striker could work magic with his épée which left me awestruck.
I plugged cable into the slot behind my épée’s circular handguard.
“Ready?” I called out.
Striker had turned his back to me and was walking towards his end of the piste, popping his masked helmet over his head.
I did the same.
My vision darkened as the light became filtered through a fine black mesh of metal.
He turned and took position.
“En guarde!” He called out. The bassy thrum of his voice cutting through me.
I raised my own sword, aiming the blunted tip at his heart. Easing into the loose stance, I felt my muscles relax. I bobbed on the balls of my feet for a moment.
Striker raised his hand. My thrill grew. My mouth felt dry.
His hand dropped to his side.
It was on.
I rushed forward. Right foot leading, left foot following. I charged in a semi-sideways prance which optimised offensive options, reduced the visible areas Striker could hit, while also allowing me the chance to spring backwards if he came on too hard. Fencing was one of the few sports where the physical differences in strength between men and women was, largely, nullified. Skill weas paramount, followed by timing. After that, reach and speed were important. That was why the men and women often trained together, more bodies, different styles. New tricks to learn. In fencing, the ability to read your opponent and know what they were about to do made you dangerous.
I could not read Striker at all.
He stood there, nonchalantly. His sword pointing towards the ground. There was no visible tension in his body. No flick of his impassive mask to indicate where he was looking. What he was thinking.
I stepped into the lunge, throwing my arm forward. However, a shrill shriek from the scoring box informed me that I had been hit. I did not even feel it.
Striker lowered his head, looking down at my feet. I followed his gaze. The top of his épée was pressing into the front of my shoe. Just enough to score a point.
“One, nil” Striker said smugly. “I think I’ll play with you until I get to seven points. Then I’ll get serious until the end of the match at fifteen points.”
Fifteen points, the end of the match. “I’ll give you something to play with,” I said reactively. They were stupid words, and I cringed as they left my mouth.
He chuckled.
We reset. Each round slipped by in a flurry of steps and blows. I lost round after round, but I did not care. Our swords would beat off one another. I would bind his épée by wrapping mine around his and pushing the blade away. He would faint. I would dance away. Together we moved like spectres in the night. Neither of us talked, communicating only with our bodies and blades.
We pressed in tight and pushed away. I retreated, and he pursued. His short half steps became a leaping lunge. I realized he’d read me. Calculated my pace, and was moving in for the kill. But my arm was already in motion. I caught his tip with the handguard at the base of my blade. I swept his sword away. Stepping in close enough to smell his sweating body, I drove my épée into his ribs.
The box shrieked in delight, and I grinned as the score read four to Striker, one to me.
“Good hit, French”. Striker said from behind his mask.
“It was lucky,” I admitted.
“No, it wasn’t. I overcommitted, you saw the opening. Your ability to perform well under pressure is impressive”
“I’m impressive? I thought you were just playing with me.”
Striker’s hand disappeared up under his mask to wipe the sweat from his brow.
“I said I was playing with you. Not taking it easy on you. Some advice. I’m left-handed. That’s a natural advantage in fencing until you get to the Olympic level. About eighty percent of people in the club are righties. So when you practice, you learn how to do things one particular way.
“That explains why everything I did just felt weird.”
Striker nodded,
“Against a lefty,” he said, “everything is the wrong way around. Get better at doing things in reverse. Is that clear?”
It wasn’t, but I nodded anyway.
“And watch your feet. You got big farm girl feet. Sure, it means you are taller than most women so have a longer reach. But if you keep planting those flippers out of line, you are going to bleed points.”
I felt adequately bullied by his remark. What had begun as almost kind advice had become a scathing comment about the size of my feet. He must have known that I was self-conscious that I wore size eleven shoes. It had been something my last boyfriend had teased me about relentlessly in high school.
We reset and then began again. I was so suddenly aware of my feet.
Each step felt like enormous clown shoes slapping the rubber mat. I half imagined a honking sound with each footfall. I tried to ignore the intrusive thoughts and focus my attention on Striker. The tip of his blade wobbled in front of me. I blocked and bound, parried and feinted. But comments about my feet had driven the dance from me. I stood, rooted to the spot, unwilling and unable to move. I tried rationalizing my lack of grace as not wanting to allow Striker to score a point. But who was I kidding, the Olympic fencer should have scored against me whenever he damn well chose.
Suddenly, my head snapped backward, and I found myself looking at the ceiling. The shrill call from the score box informed me that I’d been hit, but my brain had not registered what had happened. That’s when I stumbled back, my flippers tripping over each other and I fell. Landing hard on my ass.
