Images zip through my mind—a pirate flag with skull and crossbones, a dog carrying a bone in his mouth, a pile of dinosaur bones. “What?”
He waves his hands, sighing. “Never mind. Look. Here’s my number.”
He bends, grabbing a pad of sticky notes from my desk and my favorite pencil. I’m about to shout at him to drop the pencil when I stop. The vivid image of facing Doug in the battle arena floods my mind. I’m staring through the grill of my helmet and I’m swinging fiercely at him. The swords clank, the flash of metal in the sunlight blinding me. I can taste the dust in my mouth. Doug’s blocking me with his sword—held firmly in his left hand.
Jordan’s using his left hand, cocked at weird angle, to scribble down his number in his typical messy writing. I study him as he does it. I’ve known that Jordan is left-handed, but before now, that information hasn’t been important to me.
Jordan is saying something again, and I faintly hear it through the whirlwind of images flashing through my mind. Doug and I are on par, skill-wise. But his advantage is that he fights right-handed men far more often than I practice against left-handers. Practicing and sparring against a left-hander—even if not as skilled as Doug—might give me a competitive edge against him. Left-handed people only represent roughly twelve percent of the population. I know of no one who is physically fit enough to match my training regimen and who is also left-handed. Until now, that is.
Jordan straightens and turns to leave when I speak out. “Stop. I’ve just thought of how you can make it up to me.”
Jordan’s looking at me strangely, out of the side of his eyes. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“You can come help me train during my sessions with the European martial arts trainer.”
His brow scrunches together. “Martial arts? You mean like karate or tae kwon do?”
I sigh. Jordan is smart—most of the time—but sometimes he can be dense. “Those are Asian martial arts. I’m talking about European martial arts. Sword fighting, archery, fencing, et cetera. I’m specifically talking about fighting with sword and board.”
“Sword and what?”
“It’s the term for a shield, or buckler. I need a left-handed person to train against for those bouts.”
“You’re fighting another duel?”
“Yes. And it’s very important I win. She’s depending on me. If you want to make it up to me, this is what I want you to do. Maybe I’ll forgive you after that.”
His mouth purses for a minute like he just ate a lemon. “I’m not responsible if I beat the crap out of you, am I?”
“If you can manage it, no. But your overconfidence is your weakness,” I say, repeating Luke Skywalker’s line from Return of the Jedi.
“Your faith in your friends is yours,” he quotes back. “Fine. I’ll do it. Hell, I might even enjoy it.”
“And if I win, I get to date April?” When he opens his mouth to protest, I start laughing. “Joke.” By far a joke. April is very pretty, but she is nothing compared to Jenna. And as far as my mind is concerned, Jenna is the only one. Since I first laid eyes on her, I haven’t thought about any other woman. Just her.
I am not about to let her down. I’ll do whatever it takes to win this. For her.
***
Later that night, I continue my Monday routine. After dinner, I change into my workout clothes, ready for a short run. I complete five kilometers in about twenty minutes, and then after another forty minutes of planks, lunges and free weights, I begin to work on my fighting moves.
I look at my wall calendar. It’s the latter half of March. The Beltane Festival, and thus the second duel, is exactly forty-one days away.
Along with my instructor-led martial arts training, I’ve been watching videos to study the strategy of swordplay. I’ve also color-coded my workout schedule and labeled the amount of time I should spend training at each activity. In the last few months, I’ve managed to fine-tune my fitness regimen. My body fat is at an optimal level, all calculated to the most precise evaluation of my BMI. Even my cousin, who is in very good shape, has noticed and complimented me on my efforts.
I’m about to start my sword routine when my phone trills. It’s the least annoying of the signals available—I checked the settings.
With a deep breath, I get up to look at the caller ID. I have never yet managed to ignore a phone call, which is why I normally turn it off while in my workshop or art studio. I also prefer to answer after the second ring. This time, it almost rings for a third time before I’m able to pick it up, and I realize in my haste to stop the ringing that I did not glance at the caller ID. Both of these things unsettle me. I’m already two steps off my routine, and it’s making my skin feel itchy.
“William Drake here,” I snap.
“Uh…hey, William. How are you? It’s Jenna.”
Jenna. A feeling, like an entire ship sinking in my stomach, comes over me. My throat tightens.
For a moment, I blank on an appropriate response as I envision the first time I ever saw her. It was at a surprise party that Adam threw for Mia at his house over two years ago. They’d been celebrating her acceptance to medical school. I despise parties and had stayed close to the wall, as I usually do on such occasions. But that was when I saw her.
Beautiful.
So beautiful that everything froze when I looked at her. I see that vision now as if she is standing right in front of me again. She’s wearing a turquoise and violet patterned shirt and a black skirt. Her legs are long and slender. She has pale skin, and her hair is so blond it’s almost white. And her eyes…so blue. Pale, but with a purple undertone. Somewhere between the shades of cornflower and cerulean.
“Hello? William? You still there?”
“Yes. I haven’t gone anywhere. Hello, Jenna.” I force the almost overpowering image from my mind.
“Oh, okay. Good. I was…I was wondering if I could come over for a few so we can talk.”
“We can talk now. We actually are talking now.”
She laughs. Something I said must have been funny. Then I realize her asking if we could talk means that she wants to see me face to face.
“Well, I thought we could get started on some of those calming techniques to help with your unease with crowds. Would tonight be okay? After dinner?”
“I’ve eaten dinner, but you are welcome to come after you’ve eaten. I’m working out right now. Then I will be in my workshop. You can come during that time.”