He finished the ladder, paused to catch his breath for exactly ten seconds, and immediately transitioned into dynamic stretches. High knees, lunging hips, leg swings. Every movement was deliberate, aimed to prime his muscles for explosive speed.
While his hamstrings stretched, Doug looked across the salle. A group of fencers from the local high schools were clustered near the equipment racks. They were casually jogging in loose circles, their focus entirely consumed by a loud conversation about a movie that was playing over the weekend. One of them did a half-hearted hamstring stretch, leaning against the wall with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other. They were laughing, relaxed, and utterly unbothered by the clock.
A small, quiet part of Doug envied them. He envied the fact that they could treat this place like a social club. He envied that they could show up, give a half-assed effort, and go home without a second thought. One relaxing weekend surely wouldn’t affect his training too much, right?
But then he remembered the grease-slicked air of his shift from two nights ago. He remembered the heavy plastic feel of the cash register keys under his fingers and the calculation he ran in his head every single week. Three hours. That was the length of tonight’s open floor session. When the club fees were coming directly out of his own pocket, earning one minimum-wage hour at a time over a fryer, every single minute carried a literal price tag. Taking a round off to gossip or even taking it easy was a waste of his hard-earned money. He couldn't afford to burn cash, especially after what happened to his father, which made money even harder to come by.
Doug straightened up, shaking out his arms, and began a light jog to finish his warm-up. As he moved past the chatter, he noticed that the others barely even glanced his way. They didn't invite him into the conversation, and they didn't offer a nod. A few months ago, the cold shoulder might have stung. Tonight, it was a massive relief. Their indifference was a shield. Because they ignored him, he didn't have to navigate the awkwardness of declining plans or making small talk. He could just fade into the background and do what he came to do. At times, he’d rather be invisible to focus on what truly mattered.
A sharp, echoing clap cut through the chatter of the salle.
"Bring it in!" the coach called out, his voice booming over the hum of the scoring machines.
The fencers drifted toward the center of the floor, forming a loose semi-circle. The coach, a stoic man of few words whose face rarely betrayed any emotion, didn't waste time with a speech. Doug appreciated that because any time spent on speech was less time for practice.
"Group calisthenics. Coordination and core strength. Let’s go."
For the next fifteen minutes, Doug joined the rhythm of the group, his body already warm and primed while some of his peers groaned through the planks and leg lifts. As soon as the final core exercise was completed, the coach stood up and gestured toward the open strips.
"Line up. Footwork lines. Advance, retreat, lunge."
Doug took his position on the rubberized mat, dropping instantly into a low, balanced en garde stance. He and the others formed a line while they all faced the other end of the gym. He took a few deep breaths and visualized his foe facing him at the other end. His blade was held steady, but his focus was entirely on the distance beneath his feet.
The pattern began.
Advance, advance.
Two crisp, tight steps forward, leading with his front heel.
Retreat.
A smooth, rapid step back to maintain the invisible boundary.
Lunge.
Doug exploded forward, his back leg straightening like a coiled spring, driving his body low and parallel to the strip.
Recover.
He snapped back into his stance.
Retreat, retreat.
His immediate flow into a double retreat allowed him to reset his positioning. Then, he repeated the entire sequence. Because everyone had their own lanes, he didn’t have to worry about colliding with anyone. That allowed him to completely filter everyone out until it was just him, the lane he was in, and the imaginary opponent who tried to disrupt his pattern.
As he drove through the drills, a sudden wave of clarity hit him. The grueling hours spent in his cramped bedroom, counting squats, doing lunges, and working on footwork with limited space while his muscles screamed in the dark, were paying off. When he had first started fencing, these transitions felt clunky, like trying to sprint through deep mud while performing other tasks that his brain couldn’t process. His balance would falter, and his recovery would leave him wide open.
Tonight, it felt completely natural. He was in total control of his center of gravity. His feet gripped the strip with absolute precision, and his recovery was fluid, instantaneous, and light. He wasn't fighting his own body anymore. Just as the run from school to home didn’t feel like a form of torture and became more of a routine he enjoyed.
He was deep into his fifth repetition when the coach shouted that this session was over and they were moving on. Doug finished his double retreat and locked back into his en garde stance, his breathing steady. As he relaxed further, he looked around to see the others all grabbing their water bottles to rehydrate. Then, his eyes stopped at the coach who stood there, arms crossed over his chest. From his observations, the coach’s sharp eyes tracked every millimeter of everyone’s footwork, letting nothing get past him. At the end of the entire session, he would advise everyone to ensure that they would leave with something gained.
"Good work," the coach said simply as he walked past Doug.
From a man who usually corrected mistakes with a silent frown or a harsh critique, those two words were a massive compliment. A quiet surge of validation warmed Doug’s chest.
"Find a partner," the coach commanded, his voice scattering the fencers across the floor.
Doug didn't move. He stood quietly by his strip, watching the predictable flurry of movement as the other immediately paired off with their friends. There was the usual laughing, pointing, and rushing to secure a spot with someone they could chat with between reps. Within thirty seconds, the entire room had paired up, leaving only Doug and one other fencer standing alone at the end of the line.
Ironically, Doug didn’t even know this person’s name. As he learned pretty early on since joining the club, people came and went regularly. Some tried it out of curiosity or were briefly interested after watching a fencing video. When the passion died down, or the costs became a factor, people left. Some came once a month due to other priorities in life. While Doug knew the other person was a regular who might have more practice than him each week, he just couldn’t remember the person’s name.
Still, they became partners by default, exchanging a silent, perfunctory nod before hooking their body cords into the reels.
"Simple one-attack, one-defend drill," the coach shouted from the center of the room. "Focus on the timing of the blade contact. Go."
Doug dropped into his en garde stance, raising his sabre. He started on the defensive. As his partner stepped forward, Doug’s mind instantly mapped the trajectory of the oncoming blade. He knew the mechanics perfectly. He saw the opening, recognized the angle of the attack, and knew exactly which parry was required to deflect the steel. He had watched such an attack hundreds of times online. He could even explain it to someone with no fencing knowledge. Yet, the moment the attack launched, he immediately learned he couldn’t do anything to stop it. It was as if he was watching his defeat in slow motion.
Clack.
The electronic scoring machine let out a sharp beep on Doug’s side. He had been hit.
They reset. His partner lunged again. Doug tried to adjust his distance, but his reaction felt agonizingly delayed, as if his muscles were moving through heavy water compared to his opponent.
Clack.
Another light flashed against him. It was completely one-sided. No matter how perfectly he understood the theory in his head, his body and limbs simply weren't exploding at the speed required for actual combat.
When the coach clapped his hands to reverse the roles, Doug hoped the offensive momentum would change his luck. He focused on his footwork, executing a beautiful, crisp double advance. His balance was perfect, his center of gravity completely controlled. But the moment he launched his attack, his opponent smoothly slipped away, parrying Doug’s blade with casual ease. Every attack Doug attempted missed the mark or was easily parried. It felt as though his opponent could read his intentions before his hand even moved, anticipating the exact line of his blade. His footwork had improved drastically, giving him the positioning he needed, but his blade felt like it couldn’t hit anything.
The frustration built a quiet, burning pressure in his chest. The gap between practicing the drills alone in his room and facing a live, reactive opponent on the strip felt like a chasm that he couldn’t overcome yet. As much as all of this frustrated him, Doug understood one thing. This was why he joined the club in the first place. If training alone in his room sufficed, then such clubs would never exist.22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTyMCqPNZW9
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