The First Stroke (Varsity Heat Crew #1)

Chapter 1 Liam

I was back in Ashford, back at Riverside State University.

Sophomore year hadn’t officially started, but I was already slipping my single scull into the water at the University boathouse docks.

It was still dark this early in the morning, but the sun was moments away from popping up over the horizon. It was my favorite time of day—quiet, just me, the darkness, and the river.

On the other side of the river, Kingswell University perched on a hill like it owned the whole damn town. Old grey stone buildings, manicured lawns, the whole place humming with privilege.

I tried not to look at it any longer than I had to. This year was about me, not Alex Harrington.

I situated myself in my single, pushed off the dock with my fingertips, and drifted free. The current tugged me sideways.

Coach Hale always said you could tell how a season was going to go by the first stroke you took in the fall. I had to make it a good one—the entire season was riding on it, apparently.

That was a lot of pressure for the first stroke, and I could feel it building in my chest. I took a deep breath and let it out. I gripped my oars, set my heels, leaned forward, and gave my first pull.

WHOOSH.

Solid. Not good, not bad—just solid.

I cascaded down the river with ease, settled into an easy steady-state rhythm—legs, body, arms; arms, body, legs.

The oars sliced into the river on the catch.

The river woke up with me. Mist rose in thin sheets.

My muscles warmed until my shoulders loosened and the burn in my quads settled into the good ache.

This was the first time I’d been on the river since last year’s regatta with Kingswell. We lost to them by three seats in the freshman eight boat. I could still feel the humiliation burn under my skin, still see the look Alex shot me when we crossed the finish line.

Losing to Alex was devastating, but that loss wasn’t happening again this year.

This year, I didn’t need my teammates holding me back. I needed a single. One boat. One seat. A place where I could prove myself as a rower.

Halfway to the first bend, I noticed motion across the river.

Another single.

Someone else insane enough to train before the season started at 5 AM.

Kingswell colors, obviously.

I kept watching the other shell out of the corner of my eye as I rowed.

Long, efficient strokes. Good ratio. Steady acceleration. The guy was controlled, almost mechanical. That narrowed it down to one person.

Please… not him.

I wasn’t ready to see his face this early in the season, let alone this early in the morning.

I leaned harder on the drive, pulling my shell closer to the center of the river. The Kingswell boat drew even with me as we rounded the bend, still on the far side but unmistakable now.

Blond hair. Tall, muscular, perfect posture. My stomach dropped.

Fuck. It’s him. Alex Harrington.

He hadn’t seen me yet, but I saw him. And even though it pissed me off, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him—stronger shoulders, broader chest, but the same controlled, effortless technique. I hated how good he was.

My chest tightened. Anger. Sharp and familiar.

Alex was the one who cut me off two summers ago, the one who chose pride and fear over whatever the hell we almost had. Something stupid and reckless and doomed, but what we had was real.

And he gave up on it.

He gave up on me.

He’d rather be Kingswell royalty.

I could live with that, except my body didn’t seem to get the memo. He was the only person who lit my nervous system on fire. Hell, even Emily couldn’t do that.

I'm not sure what that meant… but whatever.

It probably had more to do with the fact that he was my rival. All last year, we were neck and neck from erg tests to scrimmages. We were both top freshmen in our programs.

And this year was important. The rumor was Under 23 National scouts would be watching us both.

That was the pathway to the Olympics. This wasn’t some little high school regional regatta—this was the big leagues. If I could get into a U23 National boat, it would change my life forever.

My hands trembled on the next stroke. I was getting closer to him. We were parallel across the water but still a good distance apart. Then he noticed me. I should have turned around, but I was drawn to him.

He turned his head and our eyes met.

It was like someone jammed a live wire into my chest. Alex’s expression flickered—surprise, then something unreadable, that familiar cool mask sliding into place.

“Morning,” he called.

My jaw clenched. “Surprised to see you out here preseason.”

His mouth twitched. A smirk. God, that smirk.

He wasn't surprised. He knew I trained as hard as he did—if not harder. We drifted toward each other, drawn in by the current. Alex adjusted his grip on the oars.

“Could’ve sworn you usually sleep in,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you out so early.”

He was starting in already.

“Some of us have to work for what we have.”

His eyes flicked over me, slow, assessing. “Right. Because grit is kind of your thing.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not. You started with me.” Frustration flashed across his face.

“Whatever," I said.

“You need to grow up, Liam.”

“Me? Don’t talk down to me, summer rich.”

He blinked, offended but trying not to show it. That was one thing about Alex—he was rich, he was legacy, but I knew the truth. He hated his life. I was the only one who knew what he hid under that mask.

“I wasn’t talking down—” He exhaled. “Never mind.”

“Great conversation, Harrington.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m not trying to mess with you.”

“Congrats. Want a medal? Or does Daddy have one engraved already?”

His mask cracked. I hit a nerve. Good.

“If it makes you feel better to pretend my father rows the boat for me, fine. But you still finish behind me. You always do.”

The air tightened. My heartbeat thudded in my ears. Anger drowned out everything else. I should’ve rowed away. I should’ve been the bigger person.

But something in me snapped.

“You want to race?” I asked.

His eyebrows ticked up. “You’re kidding.”

“Come on. Scared?” I taunted him. I knew he couldn’t turn it down.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then he narrowed his eyes, leaned forward, and set his oars.

“Fine,” he said. “Finish line at the Riverside boathouse.”

“Done.”

We lined up across the river. The world shrank to the two of us.

No teams, no coaches, no rules. Just me and Alex. He nodded once and we both drove our legs down hard.

The race exploded.

My blood caught fire. Water churned white. My lungs seized. Each stroke felt like ripping something raw out of myself. Alex stayed even with me—then gained—then fell back—then surged again. His technique was too clean; mine was too violent.

I knew that.

We were mismatched in the most infuriating way.

My heart pounded. I couldn’t let him win. Why did I even challenge him?

None of this was a good idea. We could get in so much trouble. I pushed the thought out of my mind and found another gear at the halfway point, fueled by spite. He matched it like he could read my mind.

God damnit.

We shot under the bridge, dead even, my legs burning and my vision tunneling. I couldn’t lose to him.

The last ten strokes were hell. Alex slipped ahead by half a seat. I clawed it back. He surged again.

For three strokes, we were synchronized—his catch matching mine, our boats breathing together. Like we’d found a rhythm across the water and our boats lifted.

It felt like flying.

It felt like that summer.

Then my anger flooded back.

The Riverside boathouse appeared ahead like a finish-line taunt. I emptied everything—every grudge, every memory, every stupid leftover spark from that summer.

But it was lost. He was ahead by an entire seat when we passed the boathouse.

I knew it and he knew it.

We both pulled an easy, slowed the stroke rate to let our boats settle. I gasped to catch my breath. Everything in me said not to look up, don’t acknowledge the loss, just row away.

“Good race.” He smirked.

My pulse kicked hard against my ribs. I hated him and I wanted him. I forced my voice steady and looked up.

“Go to hell, Harrington.”

He frowned and shook his head. “Fine, Liam.”

He rowed away, clean and effortless, leaving ripples in his wake. I stayed where I was, chest heaving, heart burning in ways I didn’t have words for.

Sophomore year had barely started. And the start of my season wasn’t one good stroke—it was losing an illegal race to Alex Harrington.