What Vera Confessed to Her Before the Final Bout

The sports complex meeting room had a white light that morning, a light that seemed harsher than ever. It was just after seven and no one was speaking. Only the rustle of warm-up jackets and the snap of a folder being opened could be heard. Colonel Vargas paced back and forth as if he were facing a platoon before an operation.

“Listen carefully,” he said at last, with that voice that allowed no argument. “Today we’re not here for a medal alone. This final isn’t just any bout.”

His eyes settled on Renata. Not with harshness, but with something worse: expectation.

“Today a national athlete can earn an outright Olympic berth for the first time. Do you know what that means for the federation? For the country?”

There was a short, uncomfortable murmur.

“And you, Duarte,” he went on, bluntly, pointing at her with his index finger as if she were a target, “have no choice. This time you’re going to win. Don’t repeat the mistake you made five years ago, much less the one from a few days ago.”

Renata lifted her gaze, holding herself back. Her heart was pounding with a familiar fury. She knew exactly what he meant: the tournament after Dafne’s death, when she competed on autopilot, won, and then vanished for two seasons.

“Last time you broke down and quit like a coward,” he continued, mercilessly. “For what? For a death? Did you change anything with that?”

The question brushed her like a sharp blade. Renata didn’t blink. She didn’t answer. She knew that if she did, the rage or the pain would spill from her eyes.

“You only came back because your father forced you, and even so the country trusted you again. Today you’re not fighting for yourself. You’re fighting for us. Winning is your duty.”

He closed the folder and walked to the door.

“Get ready. The final is in two hours. And you, Duarte… if you don’t win this time, don’t come back to the team.”

The door closed behind him. The room froze in an icy silence. Renata took a deep breath. Her teammates avoided her eyes. No one dared say a word. She swallowed hard, not out of fear of losing, but because winning might mean remaining someone she no longer recognized.

***

An hour and a half later, already dressed to warm up, jacket open and foil slung across her back, Renata was walking through one of the corridors near the practice area. Her mind was a whirlpool of the colonel’s words, images from the past, and the unmistakable shadow of Dafne.

That was when she saw Vera.

Alone, sitting on a concrete bench, adjusting the laces on her shoe. She looked calm, though Renata knew it was all a façade. A fencer’s heart before a final is always dancing on the edge of the abyss.

When she noticed her, Vera looked up and smiled. Not arrogantly, but with that shy warmth that threw Renata off more than any frontal attack.

Renata hesitated for a second. Then she walked over to her. Vera stood. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

“I’m so happy I made it here with you,” Vera said at last, her voice soft but steady. “I wanted to tell you something before the bout.”

Renata looked at her in silence.

“I’m not really sure how to explain it, but I’m going to try.” She sighed. “Years ago, the first time I saw you compete, I admired everything about you. I used to go watch you whenever I could. Back then you weren’t the best, because there was someone beating you again and again.”

She paused when she noticed the change in Renata’s face. She knew it wasn’t because of the loss, but because of who had caused it.

“Once, that person came up to me,” she went on. “She saw me watching you and sat down next to me while you were fencing. She asked if you were my idol or my crush. I was embarrassed that she said it so directly.”

Renata felt the name that was coming like a forbidden echo.

“Her name was Dafne,” Vera said, and saw how Renata clenched her jaw. “She laughed at my red face and told me, ‘Everyone loves her on the strip.’ And then something else.”

Don’t say her name like that, Renata thought, but she didn’t interrupt.

“She said, ‘In the end you realize you don’t fall in love with the way she fights alone. You fall in love with her as a whole, with her feelings… even if she tries to hide them.’ She trusted you so much. She was sure you’d go far, but she said first you had to learn to compete for love, not for duty.”

Renata lowered her gaze. That memory hurt like a clean cut. The words were so Dafne that hearing them in another voice opened something deep in her chest.

Vera stepped closer. She took Renata’s hand, right where the glove still didn’t cover the skin, and stroked the back of it with her thumb. She brushed her wrist, then slid her fingers down into her palm, pressing slowly. Renata felt the heat of that hand travel up her arm, slip beneath the jacket, settle low, between her thighs, with a frankness she didn’t know how to name.

“I just wanted you to remember that today. Don’t fight for the people who demand things of you or the ones who want you invincible. Do it for yourself. Or… for her.”

Then, without asking permission, Vera slowly lifted her other hand. Renata didn’t pull away. Vera brushed her cheek so she would raise her eyes. She ran her thumb over her lower lip, very slowly, until it parted just slightly. Renata felt her belly tighten, felt her cunt moisten inside the snug mesh, felt her nipples harden beneath the sports bra.

That touch was like a jolt. They both felt it.

Vera looked over her shoulder. The corridor was empty. At the far end there was a half-open door, an unused maintenance locker room. Without saying anything, she took Renata by the hand and dragged her inside. The door shut with a dry click. It smelled of chlorine, cold metal, old towels. A single yellow bulb hung from the ceiling.

“Vera, the final is in…” Renata began, her voice breaking.

“Forty minutes,” Vera answered, pushing her against the tiles. “Enough.”

She kissed her. It wasn’t a timid kiss: it was a mouth opening all the way, a tongue seeking the other, teeth brushing together. Renata moaned into that mouth, startled by herself, and kissed her back with the same fury she used on the strip. She grabbed Vera by the nape and crushed her against her until she could feel her breasts flattening against her own.

“I’ve been imagining this for years,” Vera panted against her neck, while she pulled down the zipper of Renata’s warm-up jacket. “Years, Renata.”

“Don’t talk,” Renata murmured. “Not anymore.”

Vera yanked her mesh down to her waist. Underneath, the white sports bra outlined two dark, taut nipples, visible through the fabric. Vera slipped her fingers under the elastic and freed her breasts: small, firm, with areolas puckered by the cold and by desire. She bent down and caught one nipple between her lips, sucking it slowly at first, then with more hunger, until Renata let out a rough moan and dug her nails into Vera’s shoulders.

“Fuck,” Renata whispered. “Fuck, Vera…”

Vera moved to the other nipple, bit it lightly, licked it with the tip of her tongue, sucked it whole. Renata felt her legs start to give way. Vera ran a hand over her flat stomach, lingered at her navel, and kept going until she slipped it inside the mesh. Renata moaned, mouth open, when those fingers found her soaked cunt, with no underwear underneath, sliding over lips already swollen.

“You’re dripping,” Vera said, looking her in the eye, her fingers circling her clit.

“Shut up,” Renata panted. “Keep going.”

Vera slid two fingers all the way in. Renata threw her head back against the tiles and let out a strangled cry. The fingers came in and out with a wet, obscene sound that echoed through the empty locker room. Vera bit her neck while she fucked her, while her thumb kept rubbing her clit with maddening precision.

“Like that, don’t stop,” Renata moaned, moving her hips against that hand. “Deeper.”

Vera added a third finger. Renata moaned louder, and Vera covered her mouth with her free hand.

“Quiet, Captain,” she whispered in her ear, with a smile Renata didn’t know her to have. “Everyone will hear you.”

Renata bit the palm of that hand and kept riding the fingers opening her up. Vera’s knuckles were tight with her cunt, and Vera curled her fingers upward, searching for that spot that made her tremble. When she found it, Renata let out a long, almost painful cry, and her whole body shook.

“I’m going to come,” she panted. “Vera, I’m going to come…”

“Come,” Vera replied, her mouth pressed to her ear. “Come on my fingers.”

Renata came with a shudder that rose from her thighs to the nape of her neck. Her cunt pulsed, squeezing Vera’s fingers, soaking her hand all the way to the wrist. She held in her cry by biting her lip until it bled. Vera held her against the wall, letting her ride out the orgasm, pulling her fingers out very slowly.

Vera brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked them one by one, looking at her.

“You taste delicious,” she said.

Renata was still panting. She looked at her, and something in her rebelled against passivity. She grabbed Vera by the nape, turned her, and put her back against the tiles herself. She pulled down the tracksuit zipper, ripped off her undershirt in one tug. Vera had bigger breasts than she did, white ones, with pink nipples that went hard the moment the cold air touched them. Renata bit them without mercy, first one, then the other, sucking them hungrily, long denied, tugging with her teeth until she drew a sharp moan from Vera.

“Shut up now,” Renata told her.

She knelt on the tiled floor. She pulled down Vera’s tracksuit pants and panties in one go. Vera’s cunt was shaved, shining with moisture, with the inner lips peeking out full and pink. Renata spread her legs with her hands and dove in, mouth open. She ran her whole tongue from bottom to top, from the soaked entrance to the clit, and then back down, sucking every fold.

“Oh, Renata,” Vera moaned, gripping her head. “Oh, yes, like that…”

Renata drove her tongue into the opening, pulling it out and pushing it back in, then moved up to suck her swollen clit between her lips. Vera had one leg propped on a side bench to open herself wider, and with the other hand she squeezed one breast, twisting her nipple. Renata looked up at her from below, her chin shining with juices, and slid two fingers into her. Vera arched her back.

“More,” she panted. “Deeper.”

Renata gave her three. Vera moaned so loudly that Renata had to bring up her free hand to cover her mouth. The fingers went in and out of Vera’s cunt with a splashing sound that filled the room. Renata sucked her clit at the same rhythm, in circles, with her tongue flat. She could feel Vera tightening around her fingers, getting tighter and tighter.

“I’m about to…” Vera began, eyes shut. “I’m going to come, Renata, fuck, don’t stop…”

Renata didn’t stop. She curled her fingers forward, sucked her clit harder, and Vera came hard, thrusting her hips against Renata’s mouth, spilling over her chin. A muffled cry escaped between the fingers Renata pressed against her mouth. Her cunt clenched and released, throbbing, pouring out wetness. Renata licked it all up, not leaving a single drop.

When she stood, her face was soaked. Vera caught her and kissed her, tasting herself on Renata’s mouth without a trace of shame. They held each other for a moment, chest to chest, both trembling. Then Vera lowered her hand and slipped it back into Renata’s mesh.

“Again,” she told her. “Quickly. Against the bench.”

She pushed her to a wooden bench fixed to the wall, sat her on it and pulled her mesh down to her ankles. Renata was left with her legs open, leaning back on her elbows. Vera dropped to her knees between those legs and buried her face in her cunt. Renata let out a nervous laugh, almost a sob, when that tongue began to move up and down over her clit at a speed that drove her insane in seconds.

“Oh, you fucking bitch,” Renata panted, gripping her hair. “How do you do it…”

Vera sucked her clit in whole, pulled it out and put it back in her mouth, bit it lightly. She slid two fingers in again, and Renata started trembling immediately. It was hard to keep quiet. She brought her own hand to her mouth and bit it while she came a second time, arched over the bench, her cunt exploding around those fingers.

She collapsed backward, gasping. Vera kissed her trembling thighs, her belly, her hip. She pulled her mesh back up slowly, adjusted her bra, zipped her jacket closed.

“Now you’re going to win,” she told her, looking her in the eye. “With this in your body.”

Renata laughed, hoarse.

“You’re a cheater.”

“You already knew that.”

Vera got dressed in a hurry. She combed her hair with her fingers in front of a small cracked mirror. Renata watched her, still breathing hard, the scent of both of them clinging to her skin beneath the sportswear.

“Besides, remember I’ll be there with you,” Vera murmured. A small smile settled on Renata’s lips.

“See you on the strip,” she added, with a thread of restrained excitement.

“Yes,” Renata answered at last. “This time… I’m going to be present.”

She let go of her hand and they both stood there, looking at each other. Not as rivals. Not as teammates. But as two women who, without knowing it, had been bound for years by memory, admiration, and even pain.

As they walked away in opposite directions, the sky was beginning to clear over the complex. The sun was peeking timidly through the clouds. It wasn’t an ordinary day. That bout would decide not only whether Renata went to the Olympics: it would put something far more dangerous for her on the line, the real possibility of feeling again.

***

Close to ten, the arena lights fell like spears of fire over the metal strip. The silence was almost sacred. Neither the judges’ footsteps nor the murmur of the crowd could fully break it.

At one end, Vera adjusted her mask. She breathed at a measured pace, but her hands trembled slightly. Not from fear, but from what was at stake. Not a medal. Not the Olympic berth. It was Renata. Her cunt still burned from coming twice against the tongue and fingers of the woman she was now fencing against.

On the other side, Renata looked like a statue: her mesh immaculate, her posture upright, the foil as an extension of her arm. But beneath the jacket her heart pounded against her chest, and between her legs she still felt the hot pulse of what had just happened. Against her skin she wore the necklace with the ring that had belonged to Dafne, and she felt that in this way Dafne would be present too.

“Final bout. First period,” the referee announced.

They saluted. The touch of the foils was almost a whisper between the metals. Then the steps back. The signal.

“En garde! Prêt! Allez!”

Vera lunged with speed. Renata met her firmly and blocked the first touch. She was no longer the lost fencer from the previous days. She was herself again: focused, fierce, alive.

The first exchanges were fast, tense, clean. The score advanced point by point. Two all. Three all. Five all. Every touch was a dangerous dance, every breath an echo of something deeper than sport.

On one of the points, Vera moved forward and Renata fell back, rolling to avoid the touch. When she stood, she smiled. A slight smile, the kind she hadn’t shown in years. She was enjoying the fight.

Vera saw it and smiled too. She was back. Renata had returned.

From the stands reserved for the coaching staff, Noa clenched her fists. Her eyes shone, because at last she was seeing her friend whole.

But the bout did not stop. Renata changed the pace and began to press. Her speed became almost relentless. Vera kept retreating without yielding; she wasn’t going to win by nostalgia, she was going to win with dignity or not at all.

Eight all. Nine all. Ten all. Thirty seconds remained in the first period. Both were gasping, covered in sweat.

Renata searched for Vera’s eyes through the mask. That honey-colored gaze was not Dafne’s. It was unique. It was hers.

“Ready?” she asked, breaking the silence for the first time.

“Always,” Vera answered.

They lunged at the same time. The clash was clean, elegant, almost brutal. The sound of the touch came through clearly and a scoreboard light came on. The point went to Renata.

End of the first period. They both lowered their guards and removed their masks at the same time. And then something that wasn’t in the rules happened.

Vera stepped forward and, without saying a word, hugged her.

Renata went rigid for an instant. Then, very slowly, she hugged her back. She rested her forehead on Vera’s shoulder and felt something she hadn’t remembered since the duel began: surrender without wound. They weren’t fighting to be better. They were fighting to deserve each other.

From the box, Noa pressed her lips together. For years she had watched Renata lift trophies, dismiss teammates, fake emotions. That gesture wasn’t fake. There was tenderness. There was life.

“I never thought I’d see that again,” she whispered to herself.

But not everyone took it the same way. From the federation area, Colonel Vargas rose with a stern expression. His voice, without needing to shout, fell like an order.

“Captain Duarte, this is not a theater performance! Focus!”

Renata turned her face slightly and removed her mask completely. She spoke calmly, firmly, without a trace of insolence.

“I am focused, Colonel. That’s why I’m here. And if I win today, it’ll be for me. Not for you, and not for what you think I should be.”

The man clenched his jaw, but didn’t contradict her. Vera smiled, proud. Noa did too, though she hid it.

The second period started with eleven to ten, Renata leading. They returned to the strip with different faces: neither hate nor rivalry, only respect and a will of iron.

Vera adjusted her guard. She had noticed something: Renata was attacking differently. The rhythm, the angle, even the footwork. It wasn’t her usual style.

“Allez!”

The exchange was ferocious. Vera advanced, Renata dodged, spun on her axis and attacked from an inverted angle. Touché. Twelve to ten.

Noa covered her mouth. She recognized that move. It was one Renata had practiced with Dafne, in the privacy of training, and had never used in competition. Until now.

Vera backed up, shaking her head, amazed, and smiled.

“Cheater,” she murmured. “You’re showing me what you never showed anyone else.”

“Didn’t you want to find the real me?” Renata replied, lifting one eyebrow slightly.

Vera tried a quick counterattack, but Renata changed direction at the last instant. Touché. Thirteen to ten. Vera’s emotion was obvious: she had studied every one of Renata’s movements for years, and discovering that there were others fascinated her even more.

Then, amid the noise, she recognized a voice.

“Come on, daughter, you can do it! Don’t give up!”

Vera turned for a second. And there she was, in the last row, standing up: the woman who hadn’t been able to accompany her for years, the one she sometimes doubted understood her passion. And yet there she was, crying silently, watching her.

Vera closed her eyes. She felt something ignite inside her chest. The next action was brutal: she landed a clean touch. Thirteen to eleven. The crowd erupted in cheers.

Both were breathing as if they were carrying the weight of the world. Seconds remained.

“Allez!”

The next touch was simultaneous. Double. Fourteen to twelve. Match point.

Renata raised her foil and looked at Vera. In that fraction of a second she remembered Dafne’s voice on a distant afternoon: “One day you’re going to find someone who doesn’t challenge you to beat them, but to be yourself.”

Vera, gasping, took guard one last time.

“If you’re going to beat me, do it with everything you are,” she said.

“Then get ready,” Renata replied.

The attack was clean, precise, unexpected and, above all, elegant. Renata recreated an impossible pass: diagonal, low, with a rotation of the torso. A technique she had never used in tournament. Dafne called it “the pulse,” because to do it right you had to feel the exact moment, as if the heart were guiding the hand.

Touché. Fifteen to twelve. Victory for Renata.

The scoreboard lit up, the referee raised his arm, and the crowd erupted. Vera lowered her head, gasping, and then smiled. She was defeated, but not vanquished. She had given everything. And deep down she knew she had been part of the rebirth of someone who had been dimmed for far too long.

Renata stepped toward her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” Vera asked.

“For not letting me run away.”

And this time it was Renata who hugged first. She spoke softly, against Vera’s ear, so only she could hear.

“And tonight,” she whispered, “it’s your turn underneath.”

Vera laughed against her neck. No one else heard it.

From the stands, Noa cried silently. And Vera’s mother, clutching her bag tightly, watched her daughter smile through tears. Not because she had lost, but because she had found something. On that strip, more than a final was at stake: the duel with the past, the courage to love, and the right to feel again. And both of them, in different languages, won.

***

Author’s note: I didn’t write this chapter with my hands, but with my pulse. I wanted Renata to stop being invincible and start being real, for the bout to be not only physical but emotional, a battle between duty and the desire to feel. Deep down, she wasn’t facing Vera, but everything she had buried in order to keep breathing.

That’s why every touch in this final is more than technique: it is memory, loss, admiration, and that crack that opens when love appears in the middle of expectation. Thank you for reading and for feeling it with me. See you in the next bout.

—Vania R.