The Master Will Appear by L.A. Witt

Author:L.A. Witt [Witt, L.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-05-16T05:00:00+00:00

~*~

Showered and dressed, I joined the rest of the spectators to watch the last few matches. There weren’t a lot of people at the tournament, and the forty-plus category was tiny. Five including Misha. That wasn’t surprising—the small competitions were never really packed. With so few competitors, it wouldn’t take long to establish a winner.

Misha was no longer dressed down in jeans and a sweatshirt. At some point, probably while I was feeling sorry for myself in the shower, he’d changed. Like the other advanced fencers, he had on bright white from head to toe, from the perfectly fitted jacket to the weathered shoes. He wore it all like a tailored suit—nothing clinging or bunching where it shouldn’t have. Nothing too loose, nothing too tight. It might as well have been painted on his body. His gorgeous, powerful body. If I’d thought his practice gear looked good on him, his tournament rig was hot as hell.

Shit, even when the wire was threaded down his sleeve, the jacket still sat perfectly. And of course, while I was still a little clumsy with my mask sometimes, he put it up and on with the ease of someone putting on a baseball cap. One smooth motion, and it was perfectly in place. He probably didn’t even fuck up his hair, the bastard.

Then the match started, and I should’ve known I’d be even more enthralled once he was actually fencing. Misha made it look easy. He moved with a kind of grace and control that resonated with me even more than it would’ve if I’d only known him as a fencer.

But I didn’t just know him as a fencer. I knew, probably more than anyone in this room, just how controlled he really was. Every smooth, fluid motion looked as natural as water rippling. Like something that just happened without thought or effort, even though I knew every muscle and tendon followed calculated, deliberate commands.

His opponent charged him. Misha planted his feet and casually parried away the foil. With all the same grace and control as he’d fenced with the entire time, he thrust.

The electric scorer buzzed. Again. Again. The bout was quick and furious, his opponent giving as good as he gave, but the guy couldn’t quite get his blade past Misha’s defenses. In minutes, it was over, and Misha had won.

Wow. Small wonder he’d wiped the floor with me the first time we’d fenced. I cringed; he must’ve thought I was a complete idiot when I’d asked him for lessons.

One thing was for sure, though—even if I was a complete and utter tool as a fencer right now, I definitely still wanted him as my coach.

And then some.

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