The lukewarm water from his bottle did little to soothe the dry, burning heat in Doug’s throat. He sat on an upturned equipment crate in the far corner of the salle, his chest heaving as he stared blankly at the rubberized strips. The partner drills had only been the beginning of the nightmare. Afterward, the coach had organized a round of friendly fencing bouts to close out the session. It had been a humbling, systematic dismantling. Doug had finished dead last on the scoreboard. He wasn't getting blown out because of a lack of effort. He felt he was just a fraction of a second too slow on his triggers. In a weapon as lightning-fast as the sabre, that tiny, agonizing delay was the difference between a successful touch and a red light flashing against him. Midway through the bouts, he could hear the whispers of the other fencers about him being an easy win.
He leaned his head back against the concrete wall, waiting for the trembling in his thighs to subside so he could pack his bag and begin the long walk home. The ambient noise of the club, the packing of gear, the zipping of bags, the lighthearted banter of fencers who had won their bouts felt incredibly distant. The confidence he arrived earlier that day had evaporated, leaving him an empty shell that couldn’t wait to retreat to his room where he could just lie in bed.
He unscrewed his cap to take another slow sip of water when a shadow fell over his boots. Doug blinked and looked up. Standing in front of him, jacket unzipped and mask tucked under one arm, was the fencer he’d defaulted to during the partner drills. The guy who had effortlessly read every single one of his attacks and got through every single one of his defenses. Unsurprisingly, the guy finished first and got plenty of compliments from the coach. To Doug, this was the definition of the perfect up-and-coming fencer. The two of them were literally separated by a chasm.
"Hey," the guy said, wiping a streak of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Good bouts today. I'm Kyle, by the way."
Doug paused, holding his water bottle tightly.
"Doug. And thanks, though I'm pretty sure the scoreboard says otherwise."
Kyle gave a short, quiet laugh and shook his head.
"Don't sweat the scores on the open floor. To be honest, your basics are incredibly solid. Your footwork is actually cleaner than half the guys who have been here for years. You’re just telegraphing your blade entry a bit, which makes you easy to time."
Doug listened, the sting of the losses softening slightly at the technical critique.
Kyle shifted his weight, looking around the emptying salle for a brief moment before locking his eyes back on Doug.
"Look, I'm not exactly the type who makes friends easily around here," Kyle admitted, his tone direct as he gestured to the lack of people around him. "But I need someone who actually takes the training seriously. I was wondering...do you want to start practicing regularly together on the weekdays? Just the two of us, hitting the strips to work on timing. I think it’d help both of us improve before the qualifiers."
Doug froze, the rim of the water bottle hovering just inches from his lips. A heavy, suffocating weight dropped into his stomach. He looked down at his worn sneakers, suddenly hyper-aware of the fraying stitching near the toe.
"I... I can’t, Kyle," Doug said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look up so his peer wouldn't think he was just being arrogant. A part of him wanted to say yes right there and then. There were no downsides to such a situation. He could learn plenty from someone who had achieved a much higher level, and that would only speed up his growth. As he improved, he might pose a slight threat to Kyle, who would have to be even sharper. After how he performed in the bouts, this was the best-case scenario. Yet, there was a problem that held back the yes he desperately wanted.
"It’s not my ego or anything. It's just..."
The heat in Doug's face had nothing to do with the intense bouts he had just finished. A deep, burning flush of embarrassment crawled up his neck. He had spent months carefully hiding his reality from the people at the club, treating his family’s financial situation like a dark, shameful secret. It didn't matter that their poverty wasn't their fault. It was the direct result of a sudden, devastating accident that had shattered his family's stability, that, to this day, they hadn’t recovered from. It was the main reason why he hadn’t seen his father for months. Despite this being a secret that neither he nor his mother shared with others, he still felt, in his head, the shame was a physical brand that people politely did not talk about publicly.
Because the reality of Canadian fencing was written in black and white on the club's fee schedule: fencing was not a sport designed for the poor. The kids from Toronto and Ottawa had parents with deep pockets, driving them to extra weekday clinics and buying them pristine, state-of-the-art maraging steel blades. They had the luxury of endless resources to fuel their ambitions. Meanwhile, kids like Doug, armed with massive dreams but empty wallets, knew exactly how stacked the odds were against them.
"I have to work most weekdays," Doug confessed, his voice dropping to a raw whisper.
He hated how small he sounded but, given how Kyle approached him, he had to be upfront.
"The only reason I can even afford these weekend floor sessions is that I’m clocking hours at a fast-food joint down the street. As much as I want to train with you...I just don't have the time or the money for extra club days."
Doug braced himself. He kept his eyes locked on Kyle’s face, fully expecting the other boy to subtly recoil, to offer a polite, hollow excuse and put some distance between them. He expected to be treated like a plague, the poor kid who didn't belong in their world. He had seen it play out at school with kids of new immigrants, but he didn’t expect to see himself in a similar situation.
Instead, Kyle didn't even blink. He just crossed his arms, his expression remaining completely grounded.
"Okay," Kyle said, his tone entirely casual, as if Doug had just complained about the weather instead of baring his greatest insecurity. "That shouldn't be a problem. We don’t need the club to practice timing drills. Let's just exchange numbers. We can work something out around your shift schedule."
Doug and Kyle then exchanged their numbers, sending each other a text to make sure they didn’t make any mistakes. It was times like these that Doug noticed something else he was rather ashamed of. In his contact list, it was very limited, with his family members taking up more than three-quarters of the space. He hadn’t noticed that he lacked friends, but adding Kyle was a loud reminder.
"Alright," Doug said, pulling his bag over his shoulder after he hastily packed everything. "I should get moving. I've got chores to finish up for my mom before she gets back."
"Sounds good," Kyle replied, giving him another curt nod. "I'll text you tomorrow regarding my availability. We’ll figure out the time and place afterwards."
They parted ways at the exit of the salle. But the moment Doug pushed through the heavy glass doors of the facility, the cool night air hit him alongside a sudden, heavy downpour. The streetlights fractured into blurry halos against the sheets of water slamming onto the Kingston pavement. Doug stopped under the small awning, looking out at the deluge. He hadn't packed an umbrella due to the weather forecast claiming it would be cloudy all day. With a resigned sigh, he tightened the straps of his gear bag and launched himself out into the downpour, his feet splashing hard against the sidewalk as he started the run back down the street.
Normally, he would have absolutely despised a moment like this. Getting soaked to the skin, his clothes heavy with cold water, was something he deeply detested. He had always felt that he was a creature born strictly of the land, and on the land he belonged. Anything involving excessive amounts of water would dampen his mood greatly.
Yet, as the rain slicked his hair and water began to seep into his collar, he didn't feel the familiar surge of frustration. Instead, a strange, unfamiliar sensation settled over him. He felt lighter. The suffocating weight of the shame he had carried into the club, the secret of his shifts, the fear of being exposed as the poor kid, had been stripped away, met not with disgust, but with a simple, practical handshake.
The rain kept falling, but as Doug maintained his steady stride down the dark street, the distant podium didn't feel like a mirage anymore. For the first time, the path ahead of him looked just a little bit clearer.61Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOa2KaVO6jc
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