“Take a step back.”

  “Now, come forward.”

  “Now back again.”

  “Now feint, then thrust.”

  I did everything Felicity asked of me. Moments like this made the uncomfortable grind of fencing worth it. I held out my épée and made a swishing sound as I pressed the blade into the air.

  “Like that?”

  Felicity shook her head. “Not quite, more a stab than a thrust.”

  “Is there really that much of a difference in fencing?” I asked. Fencing sounded so barbaric when I realised we were splitting hairs over whether attacking with a sword was a stab or a thrust. Modern fencing, with all its rules and regulations, had tried to civilise itself, but its roots as a fight to the death between noble men had never really gone away.

  Felicity nodded from across the piste. “Yes, yes and yes. If you acted like that in our fencing club, we’d be sending you back down to the peewee fencing class.”

  “I never pretended I was an elite fencer,” I grumbled. I had to pretend I was one of my favourite swashbuckling heroes from my childhood. Even then, I faltered. Zorro I was not, no matter how much I pretended to be. Or Jack Sparrow. Or Uma Thurman as The Bride from Kill Bill. Or Puss in Boots, albeit that feline’s whimpering nature at times might’ve been best suited to describe just how out of place I was here on the piste with Felicity.

  I kept making swooshing sounds as I pressed the épée in and out, hoping this makeshift showboating would cover up the tracks of just how non-athletic I was. It wasn’t working. Even though she was still masked, I could tell Felicity was frowning from how she’d folded her arms around her sides.

  Then she started to sigh, in pleasurable displeasure. I grew nervous, then I began fretting. I hoped I hadn’t disappointed her. I hoped she wasn’t tired of me already. I hoped she wasn’t going to mentally move on and find another man she could use as a fencing dummy.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  I had to think of something. Quick. I was certainly not quick on my feet. Especially around Felicity. Fuck.

  “Very barbaric, this sport,” I quietly mumbled out.

  She gasped in mock horror. “You think I’m barbaric?”

  “Well, no…” I said. “It’s just this sport has its roots in skewering people.”

  “Yes?”

  “And, well…” I didn’t know where I was going. With this conversation. With this point I was making. Was I even making a point, other than coming across as a stumbling, hopeless fool to Felicity?

  She walked over to me, undoing her mask along the way, letting her hair and all her freckles spill out, and I realised then I would always be a hopeless fool standing alongside Felicity.

  “You must think I’m a little bit barbaric,” Felicity mused, “if I spend all my free time skewering people, as you say.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I countered, but I don’t think Felicity cared to listen. She came up behind me, undoing the tightened fencing mask that had left my face in a red puff. It came off without a hitch.

  “There’s elegance to this sport, you know,” she whispered into my ear, “and I am elegant. Not barbaric.”

  Felicity let out a breath, and my neck tingled with goosebumps. This was as close as I’d ever been with a woman, and Felicity was simply teasing and testing me like this.

  “No,” I repeated. “You are elegant.”

  “Good,” she praised, her right hand taking the wrist that held my épée. “I am elegant. Not barbaric. Not trashy. Not at all like that van-dwelling Pocahontas you’re friends with.”

  Van-dwelling Pocahontas. Winona wasn’t that. I knew that. She hadn’t lived in a van since starting university with me, nor would she look up to Pocahontas as any sort of role model.

  I let the words ruminate in my head again. Van-dwelling Pocahontas. I wanted to snap at Felicity, but I didn’t. There was no anger brooding within me. Instead, I felt I was being lulled into an endless song by a bard.

  With her other hand, Felicity trailed it around my waist, pressing my stance into something more acceptable to her liking as an esteemed fencer. She looked so tall now. So very tall.

  “Now thrust, not stab,” she whispered, guiding my arm all the way in, then out again. Not a quick joust, but pressed fully into the abdomen of whatever invisible fencer was in front of me.

  It wasn’t invisible, of course. I saw Benjamin Cohen opposite me, clear as day, dressed in whatever silly, flamboyant outfit he’d picked out for himself this time. Winona was there too on the sidelines, cowering, wondering which of us would win, unable to cheer on either of us.

  “Again,” Felicity whispered, and I continued on, imagining myself skewering Benjamin, hoping his shameful defeat would leave Winona and me to spend more time with each other as friends. Driving around, playing music and even wrapped in each other’s arms as we slept together in comfort.

  “Again,” Felicity pressed. Her hands around my waist tightened, and I started to feel as though I might buckle from how close we were. She was lying about never being with a man before. I could just sense it. She’d probably tried pulling this same trick on a man who’d come before me, or one who might come after.

  I didn’t want that to happen. Innuendos aside, I kept practising my thrusts, and I could feel her grip beginning to loosen in contentment. She stepped away, and I delivered one last thrust into Benjamin Cohen and his horribly sharp, grinning face.

  “Impressive,” Felicity whistled. “I think that’s all for today. Now, hit the showers, Connolly.”