Page 70 of The Underachiever's Guide to Love and Saving the World

Forcing myself to focus on getting through the task before me, I tried to lift my blade. Unbidden, pictures flashed in my head—Courtney’s wide, shining eyes, full of shock and pain. The pure terror twisting my gut when the skeletal hand grabbed her ankle.

“I can’t,” I said, realizing it was true. My arm refused to lift the sword. I couldn’t hurt her. Physicallycould not. I had mental erectile dysfunction. Instead of being unable to use my dick, I was incapable ofbeinga dick.

Courtney huffed, yanking her sword from the ground. “Then call it self-defense, if it makes you feel better.”

She lunged, and I jumped back, barely managing to parry. She attacked again, her blade a flashing flurry of steel that I barelybatted away. Relentless blow after relentless blow rained down upon me.

Our blades locked, and she stepped in close. “What are you waiting for?” she growled, nose inches from mine. “Fight back.”

“What if I hurt you?” Courtney gave me a disbelieving look, so I added, “I mean if you’re hurt, you’ll be a worthless sidekick if I need you to pull a Samwise and carry me up a volcano.”

“Unbelievable.” She pressed her sword harder against mine. “You’ve gotten soft.”

“No.”The muscles in my arm trembled. Not because they were particularly fatigued from holding her off me, but because theydidn’t want to hold her off me.

“What did it? My pebbly,pebblynipples?”

“Shut up.”I scoffed, trying to sound dismissive.

She pushed away, our blades separating with a metallicshink. Realizing she was right and we needed to end this, I tossed my sword aside and strode purposefully toward her. Lowering my shoulder, I aimed low and charged. At the last second, I eased back my speed, so my shoulder lightly tapped her hip.

She looked down at where I stood, my shoulder stuck to her hip. “Literally, what are you doing?”

“I’m letting you let me beat you,” I said into her waist. “Go with it.” She shifted, and her chain mail smashed against my mouth. Spluttering, I tried to maintain my grip. “I’m tackling you.”

“I’m quaking.”

“You’re kinda supposed to fall now.” I grunted. “So if you could cooperate, that would be great.”

“Yes, I’m sure you fondling me is convincing the city of battle-hardened warriors this is a legitimate fight.” But she stiffly bent her knees, and we began jointly lowering ourselves to the ground.

It was the slowest tackle in the history of the world. Hardly even a tackle—more like two fragile old people helping each other to bed. Our feet shuffled as we negotiated our landing.

I adjusted my hold halfway down and caught a glimpse of her blank face. “Would it kill you to look scared or angry orsomething?”

“I’m trying not to laugh during my devastating defeat. How’s this?” She opened her mouth and widened her very dead eyes.

I staggered as my bent knees threatened to collapse. “Worse. Much, much worse.”

In the bleachers, the crowd grew restless, denied their display of graphic violence.

“Watch your sword,” I said.

“My sword?Watch your knee.” She grimaced. “Maybe if you put your hand here, and my foot there. Yes. Like that.”

With a mighty creak of armor, we made an awkward landing. Off balance, I half fell over her.

“You okay?”

Courtney gave me a look. “Are you even trying to make this believable?”

She had a point. I straddled her hips, pinning her limp arms over her head. “I have bested you, foul cur,” I announced to the crowd.

“What’s a cur?” Courtney wanted to know.

“No idea. Could you scooch like a foot to your left so I can reach my sword?”

“Sure thing.”