The point machine screamed its harsh, electronic scream as Ray Garraty's épée connected with his opponent's chest. His opponent, whose jacket read 'Stebbins' in big blue letters on the back, had been in the middle of a retreat. Garraty had figured out that Stebbins was one of those fencers who liked to tease you, who just stood back there and waited for you to hit them and then hit you before you could hit them. But Garraty didn't play that way. He'd told himself that he would stand on the en garde line for the entire fucking three minutes if Stebbins didn't make a move first.

"Point left," the coach, a man with mirrored sunglasses and khaki pants, said.

The machine read five points. The match was over. He'd won. "Bout over. Salute, shake hands." Stebbins and Garraty did so. Stebbins was wearing bright purple fencing socks. His blond hair was sticky with sweat, but his gloved hand was cool and soft when Garraty shook it. Like he'd just used lotion or something. Weird

Next up in men's épée was Baker against some guy from the other team called Parker. Garraty sat down on the bleacher, his heart beating in his temples. He took a drink of Gatorade. He'd always thought Gatorade was crap, but he always drank it at competitions anyways. He closed his eyes as he drank the bright blue electrolights and didn't notice when someone sat down next to him.

"Hey."

Garraty's eyes snapped open. The kid next to him was from the other team. He was tall and muscular, with shaggy black hair and light eyes, but the thing that made him stand out was the long, white scar on his left cheek. "Who're you?"

"Pete McVries. We're up against each other next. You're Ray Garraty, right?" Garraty didn't ask how he knew that.

"How'd you get that scar?"

"Fencing accident." He laughed.

"Seriously?"

"No. That's what I tell all the newbies. But you're no newbie, Garraty. The real story's a hell of a lot uglier." McVries didn't elaborate. Baker had one point on Parker. Parker was an aggressive guy, taking a lot of big steps and yelling every time he got a point. Garraty had fenced him earlier and lost. But it was funny watching him and Baker go at it, because Baker was leisurely and calm, almost too calm, swinging his blade around to the point of almost dropping it.

"How long've you been fencing for?"

"Year and half," Garraty responded. "My mom put me up to it. She wanted me to do a sport. I thought I'd hate it, but I didn't."

"I started because my girl at the time thought it was hot." Both of them laughed. Parker had scored two points on Baker in the time they'd been talking, with about a minute left. Watching his friends fence was always unnerving. Every time there was an opening for a point Garraty had the urge to shut his eyes.

"Hey, Pete. No sympathizing with the enemy." A red-head with a deep voice had sauntered over. McVries chuckled. "Fencing rivalry's no laughing matter," he said seriously, but he was fighting back a grin.

"I'll see you when Parker finishes, Ray." McVries winked and let his friend lead him away.

Garraty took another swig of Gatorade. Hank Olson, a sabreur, was watching McVries leave. "That McVries guy? He's a real piece of work."

"Huh?" Garraty looked at him.

"He's unpredictable. First he goes fast then he goes slow. You were watching him fence Harkness and Baker, right?"

"He looked pretty normal to me."

"Just you wait until you're fencing him, man."

"I fucking hate that McVries guy." Gary Barkovitch, a small, intense foilist seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Used to fence foil. I hope he shoves his épée up his asshole or something."

"Why do you hate him?"

"He's one of those fucking teasers. He taunts ya when you're fencing." Before Garraty had a chance to respond, Parker scored the fifth point against Baker's four. The two took their masks off and shook hands. Parker was less intimidating without his mask. He really looked like he needed a shave. Garraty stood up.

Baker handed him the body cord. "You need any help getting that connected, Ray?"

"Nah, I'm fine. Thanks, Art." Garraty reached around his back and hooked the cord onto the clasp in his jacket. He pulled on his cord a little to stretch it out, then marched up to McVries to test their weapons.

McVries leaned over and whispered in his ear as he pressed his épée against Garraty's. "Loosen up, Ray. I don't bite."

"Never thought you did," Garraty said, but he gulped. He suddenly had a cramp in his knee. When he got into en garde, it released, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Fencers ready?" The coach didn't really wait for any answer from either. "Fence!" And then McVries was upon him.

McVries fenced like a dancer. His feet flew, his knees bowed in an incredibly low en garde. Garraty was almost too transfixed with his form to hold his own stance. But that was probably what McVries wanted. So Garraty advanced at him.

McVries moved back, then just as Garraty was about to move in, McVries' blade flicked out for a beat. There was something almost flirtatious about it, the way his épée gently tapped Garraty's. McVries then went into a lunge, his blade just barely missing the area right above Gararaty's crotch. The boys on McVries' team watching were cheering for him. Garraty started sweating.

"C'mon, Ray!" Baker stood on the sidelines, clapping his hands. "You've got this one in the bag!"

Garraty gritted his teeth. He could almost see McVries through his mask. He was smiling. Garraty tried to force himself into a smile and advanced at McVries, who seemed to retreat. Fuck, Garraty thought. He's just gonna keep retreating. But McVries did not keep retreating. He fucking fléched.

McVries' front foot propelled him forward like a spring. That was the exact metaphor that Garraty's coach had used for the perfect fléche. A spring. McVries went flying at Garraty. Garraty, out of total instinct, ducked into a low lunge. And his blade went forward against McVries' leg and before he knew it the machine went off.

The crowd on Garraty's side went fucking batshit. Olson was giving a standing ovation. Garraty tried not to think about them. He stole a quick glance at the scoreboard, which coaches said never to do. One minute left. Jesus. McVries looked unfazed when they returned to their en garde lines.

McVries was going slow now. Small advances, small retreats. It was like all of his movements were on a spring. He'd advance, then retreat, then advance again. Why the hell was he stalling? He was losing. That was a stupid decision.

Garraty looked at the scoreboard again. 1-0, twenty seconds left. That twenty seconds was going by faster than he could think. McVries was advancing again, and Garraty retreated to keep distance. Ten seconds left now.

McVries fléched again. His feet were off the ground, and his running landing was a charge at Garraty. Garraty's weapon hit his with a loud crash. It was no elegant six parry, but McVries hadn't been able to hit him.

"Bout over," the coach said. 1-0. The bout had ended at fucking 1-0. "Salute, shake hands." Both raised their weapons in a salute. McVries' hand was warm when he shook Garraty's. When he'd taken his mask off, his hair was sticking up, but not in an unattractive way. It was almost cute.

Something small had fallen on the strip. Maybe it'd been in McVries' pocket? It was a little slip of paper. Garraty picked it up.

It was a phone number, written in dark pen. You're cute when you parry. Call me, Ray, read the small, slanted letters. It was signed Pete McVries. It was kind of ridiculous that McVries had written that out instead of just saying it. The coach could have picked it up. That would have been a disaster. But it was sweet.

No sympathizing with the enemy, Garraty reminded himself. But he stuffed the paper into his pocket.

I hope this is understandable enough to readers who don't fence. Fencing scenes are a lot of fun to write, assigning styles to McVries and Garraty was a fun thought process for me.