Hold the Line (Varsity Heat Crew #4)

Chapter 1 Alex

Iwas thirteen minutes early. The Kingswell boathouse bay was almost empty.

Yesterday morning I'd woken up with Liam in my bed. His arm across my ribs. His breath against the back of my neck.

One day at a time. Secret. Careful.

That was the deal we'd made. In my bed with the pillow crease on his cheek and his voice still rough from sleep. It had felt possible then—manageable, even.

Twenty-four hours later, standing in the cathedral of my father's money, waiting for the first intensive Head of the Charles training session, I wasn't sure it was possible at all.

Three miles on the Charles River in Boston. Biggest head race in the country. National media. Scouts. And me in a double with the guy whose sheets I could still smell on my skin.

I heard footsteps, then the bay door rolled open.

Derek walked in with a coffee cup, steam curling past his jaw. Grey joggers. Kingswell quarter-zip. His grandfather's watch catching the light—the only sentimental thing he wore, and he wore it every day.

"You're early," he said.

"Next few weeks are big."

"Nervous?"

"No."

He sipped his coffee.

"You look different," he said.

My stomach dropped. "Different how?"

"I don't know. Good different." He shrugged one shoulder. "Lighter, maybe. Like you actually slept for once."

I had slept. With Liam. And I'd slept better than I had in months.

And apparently it showed on my face like a confession.

"Just focused on the race," I said.

Derek nodded and didn't push.

He was the only guy here and I already felt like I was performing.

He moved past me toward the racks. Ran his hand along the hull of a Filippi four with the absent reverence of someone who loved boats too much. Senior year. Last fall season.

"Riverside is coming over at five-thirty," Derek said. "Full intensive session. Eldridge is running ergs for the singles and pairs entries. Hale's taking the water for the double and the quad."

"Hale's coaching us on the water? Not Eldridge?"

"Sounds like they agreed Hale takes the double, Eldridge takes the rest. Professional compromise."

That was a relief. Hale would push us hard, but he wouldn't be reading between the lines the way Eldridge would. And honestly, being coached by someone who didn't have my father's phone number felt like the closest thing to freedom I was going to get.

"Got it. Are we just practicing here the next few weeks?" I asked.

"Alternating boathouses. Sometimes here, sometimes Riverside." Derek checked his watch. "I'm going to get changed. The rest of the guys should be here in a few."

He grabbed his bag from behind the erg row and headed upstairs toward the locker rooms. His footsteps faded on the stairs. A door opened, closed.

And then it was just me. The empty bay and the river outside, barely visible through the mist.

I heard him before I saw him.

Footsteps on the gravel path. The creak of the bay door. Then his voice, low, almost careful—like he'd checked that the room was empty before he said it.

"Hey."

Liam.

He stood in the doorframe with his gear bag over one shoulder and his sculling gloves in his other hand. Dark hair pushed back, still damp. He must have run here—his cheeks were flushed, his breathing slightly elevated, and he smelled like cold air and soap.

No one behind him. The Riverside guys weren't here yet. Just Liam, ten minutes early, which meant he'd left campus before anyone else was awake.

He'd come early on purpose.

"Hey," I said.

He stepped inside and his eyes moved over my face. Searching. Not the guarded scan from across a crowded boathouse—this was the way he'd looked at me yesterday morning. His real self, the part of him I was just getting to know.

"You sleep?" he asked.

"Not much."

"Me neither." He dropped his bag by the erg row. Took a step closer. "Kept thinking about—" He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair. "Yesterday. Your room. All of it."

Something unlocked in my chest. A pressure valve releasing.

Because I'd been holding my breath since he'd walked out of my dorm twenty-four hours ago, and hearing him say it—hearing that he'd been replaying it too, that it wasn't just me lying awake staring at the ceiling—made the ground feel solid under my feet for the first time all morning.

"Me too," I said.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him.

"It's going to be hard," he said.

"Oh yeah?" I raise my eyebrow teasing.

He smirked. "Well that too but…Three weeks. Every morning. In front of everyone."

"I know."

He looked at me, serious for a moment, then he started to smile.

"Did you set your intention for the day?" he asked.

I tilted my head. "What?"

"Good morning. Take a deep breath and set your intention for the day." Liam mocked in a horrible English accent.

It actually made me laugh, loud enough that it echoed off the high ceiling of the empty bay. I clamped my mouth shut but it was too late. The sound hung in the air between us like evidence.

"That was the worst accent of all time," I said.

"She helps me center," Liam said, pitching his voice high.

We were smiling. Both of us. The kind of small, private smile that only existed when there was no audience—no teammates, no coaches, no Eldridge watching from his glass office. Just two people who'd spent the night together and couldn't stop thinking about it.

Our eyes locked and something warm spread in my chest.

Liam's hand twitched at his side.

"I want to—" he started.

The bay door banged open.

We stepped apart, the distance materializing between us like it had been there all along.

Braden Lockwood walked in with Collins and two other pairs rowers. Braden's brown hair was cropped short—a clean crew cut that made him look more military than prep school, which was probably the point. His eyes found us immediately. Standing a little too close together. Alone.

Something flickered across his face. Not suspicion exactly. Curiosity. The kind of look a person gave when they walked into a room and could tell they'd interrupted something but couldn't figure out what.

"Harrington. Moore." He said both names. "Early birds get the worm huh?"

"Lockwood," I said.

Liam said nothing. His face had already changed—the softness gone, replaced by something hard and closed. The transformation was instant. Seamless. Like watching a door slam shut.

Collins and the other two pairs guys dropped their bags and headed upstairs toward the locker rooms. Braden stayed. Moved to the racks and began inspecting the shells.

"Heard you two got the featured double," he said without looking up. "Three generations of Lockwood rowed the Charles. When I say it matters who represents Kingswell on that stage, I mean it's not a participation trophy." He glanced at Liam. "No offense, Moore. I'm sure Riverside's very proud."

"None taken." Liam's voice was cold. "I didn't ask to row with him. The coaches put us together because we were faster than every other boat at the invitational."

The words landed hard. Braden's jaw tightened.

Liam kept going. "You want the double? Take it up with your coach. But we both know what happened last weekend."

Braden's eyes narrowed. He looked between us—Liam rigid with his arms crossed, me standing apart from him with my face carefully neutral.

"It must be all of that history you two have."

My pulse spiked. My palms went damp. For three terrible seconds I couldn't tell what Braden was talking about. We had no idea if he had seen us kiss last week.

"History." Liam's laugh was short and sharp. "Yeah. I beat him at the scrimmage last month and he's been trying to get even since. That's our history." He turned to me, and his expression was perfect—dismissive, annoyed, the look of a guy stuck with a partner he hadn't chosen. "Right, Harrington?"

I saw what he was doing. Building the wall in front of Braden. Selling the story: two rivals who couldn't stand each other but happened to be fast in a boat. Nothing more. Nothing worth looking at.

It was smart. It was necessary.

And it still stung.

"The only reason you won that race was luck," I said. Let my voice go cold with that Harrington tone. "Don't act like rowing with me is some kind of punishment."

Liam's eyes flashed—surprised, then impressed, then gone. Back behind the wall.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Harrington."

Braden watched us for a beat. Then shook his head. "Sounds like a real partnership."

He went back to his shell.

More bodies now. Tyler and two other Riverside guys coming through the bay door carrying oars up from the gravel path. Further back, Jace Morales, Riverside team captain followed them in. Liam turned to greet his crew.

Derek and a few other guys reappeared from the locker rooms, changed and ready, coffee still in hand.

I stood there with my heart hammering.

What does he know?

The question spiraled. I pressed my thumb into my palm and made myself breathe. Braden was competitive, bitter. His father and my father had a rivalry that stretched back thirty years. This was posturing. Territorial marking. It didn't mean he knew anything.

The bay filled with noise and the controlled chaos of two teams that had been sharing this boathouse for weeks of combined practices. But those had been about testing chemistry. Rotating combinations. Figuring out who could tolerate who across the divide.

This was different. This was the Head of the Charles. And everyone knew it.

Hale appeared on the dock outside—stocky, grey-streaked hair, coffee mug in hand. He exchanged a nod with Eldridge who entered through the interior door on the other end of the bay.

Hale's whistle cut through the noise.