Chapter 5 Liam
The bridge was cold under my hands.
Five-thirty in the morning. Pre-dawn. October air sharp enough to make my breath fog with every exhale.
The Riverwalk Bridge stretched across the dark water between Riverside and Kingswell, and our team walked across it in loose formation—burgundy warmups and mismatched gear, the underdog energy we always carried.
Jace led the way without trying. Just naturally at the front, shoulders squared, steady. That's what made him captain—not the speeches or the authority. Just the way he moved through the world like he knew where he was going.
Something I craved: certainty.
Tyler walked beside me, cradling his wrapped hand. "My hand's fucked, and I still showed up. Is that dedication... or stupidity?"
"Both," I said.
He grinned. "Probably."
Behind us, Evan was wide-eyed, taking everything in. First time crossing to Kingswell—kid looked like he was walking into battle instead of training. Meanwhile, I'd not only been here before, I'd broken in and hooked up in a basement storage closet.
"Is their boathouse really nicer than ours?" he asked.
Jace glanced back. "Everything's nicer than ours. I'm pretty sure our launch boat has a hole in it that Coach just stuffs a rag into."
A few guys laughed. The nervous energy in the group shifted.
My stomach had been tight since I woke up. Couldn't eat breakfast. Just coffee that sat wrong in my gut.
Emily. After this practice. After whatever the hell this morning turned into.
One thing at a time.
The bridge ended. Kingswell's campus opened up ahead. Even in the dark you could feel the difference. Like everything here had been paid for generations ago and only the most important people went here.
It wasn't for us.
"Enemy territory," someone muttered behind me.
"You got that right," I said.
If we were in enemy territory, then I was sleeping with the enemy.
Tyler nudged my shoulder. "You good?"
I didn't respond.
The boathouse came into view, it's lights glowing warm through the windows. Bigger than ours. Cleaner that ours. Sparkling like diamonds.
We pushed through the doors.
Kingswell rowers were already there, clustered near the boats. All blue. Matching warmups, matching gear, everything coordinated and clean. They looked like a team photo waiting to happen.
We looked like a collection of guys who'd grabbed whatever burgundy we owned and called it good. Some of the warmups were three years old. Mine had a bleach stain on the sleeve I'd stopped trying to hide.
The Kingswell guys glanced over. Not hostile. Just... assessing. A few smirks as they sized us up.
Where is he?
My jaw tightened.
The Kingswell boathouse was twice the size of ours.
High ceilings with steel beams running across them, tall windows down one side that let in enough light to see every detail of the place.
The lower bay opened straight onto the water through roll-up doors wide enough to carry an eight through without turning sideways.
Shells lined the racks in rows—Empachers, Filippis, boats that cost more than my mom's car.
Each one gleaming under the overhead lights, organized by class, labeled with brass tags.
The floor was clean enough to eat off. No puddles, no stray oar handles leaning against walls, no duct tape holding anything together.
An erg room sat off to one side through a glass partition—Concept2s in a neat grid, all facing the same direction. Weight room beyond that.
"Jesus," Tyler said, looking around in awe.
Jace's voice cut through. "We're here to work."
Then my eyes found him.
There.
Alex.
Near the far wall. Talking to Derek. Kingswell blue fitted perfectly across his shoulders. Hair still damp like he'd showered before coming. Gesturing about something technical, focused, completely in his element.
Heat spread through my ribs. My body remembered Saturday night before my brain could catch up.
Fuck.
I looked away fast. Forced my breathing steady.
Don't stare. Don't look too long. Don't acknowledge. Act like nothing happened.
"Alright, listen up."
Coach Hale's voice. I turned.
Both coaches stood near the center of the boathouse. Hale and Eldridge. Side by side but not quite together. You could feel the rivalry even in the way they held space—polite, professional, but underneath it a quiet competition that mirrored us.
Eldridge spoke first. "This joint training program is about performance. Testing combinations. Seeing what works when we mix teams."
"Adaptability," Hale added. "You're rivals, but you're here to learn from each other. Push each other."
A few guys shifted. The "learn from each other" line was bullshit and everyone knew it. This was scouting and gathering intel for future races. And to see who broke first when the pressure came down on us.
"We'll be running different boat configurations over the next few weeks," Eldridge continued. "Singles, doubles, fours. Nothing's permanent. Everything's data."
He paused, looking between both teams.
"The program runs for three weeks. At the end of week three, there are two events back-to-back. Saturday evening is the annual alumni mixer—both programs, donors, families. It's already scheduled. You'll be expected to attend and represent your teams."
Hale picked up the thread. "Sunday morning—the day after the mixer—we're hosting the Northeast Regional Invitational. Six schools: us, Kingswell, Boston University, Princetown, Dartmouth, and Northeastern. Multiple doubles from each program competing on our water."
My stomach tightened.
"This scrimmage is the showcase," Eldridge said. "Proof that joint training produces results. Donors and alumni from all six schools will be watching. Media coverage. Scouts. The pairings we test over the next three weeks will determine who rows Sunday."
He let that sit.
"After the scrimmage, we split. Three weeks of independent training to prepare for Head of the Charles in November. But before that happens, you need to prove this program works."
"This is your audition," Hale said. "Show us what you can do together, and you'll earn your seat for Sunday. Show us you can't handle it, and you watch from the bank."
The room went quiet.
This wasn't practice—it was theater. A performance designed to prove the joint program worked, that collaboration produced results worth the political cost of putting rivals in the same boats.
"First up," Hale said, checking his clipboard. "Williams and Chen—double. Rodriguez and Martinez—pair."
He kept reading names. Kingswell and Riverside mixed. Some guys looked excited. Some looked skeptical. Tyler caught my eye from where he stood near the wall, gave me a look that said good luck.
"Moore and Harrington—double."
The words landed like a stone in water.
Someone on the Riverside side made a sound—surprise, maybe amusement. I couldn't tell. Couldn't focus past the rushing in my ears.
Alex's face went carefully neutral across the boathouse.
I forced my expression to match and kept my face blank.
The coaches kept reading names but I wasn't listening anymore.
Me and Alex. In a boat. Together.
Tyler was staring at me. Remy too—his eyes sharp, taking it all in, he knew what was going on.
"Grab your boats," Eldridge said. "Let's get on the water."
Everyone filtered toward the boats and oars. I walked toward where the doubles were racked, keeping distance between me and Alex even as we moved in the same direction.
He reached the boat first and stood on one side, waiting.
He looked perfect. Of course he did. Kingswell blue fitted across his shoulders, the athletic build underneath obvious even through the warmups.
But I knew what was under those layers now. Had felt the muscles of his stomach under my hands. Had tasted his skin. Had heard him make sounds that perfect Alex Harrington would never make in public.
Our eyes met.
Brief. Loaded. Everything from Saturday night compressed into a glance.
He looked away first.
My chest went tight. The fucked-up part—even now, even having to pretend, some part of me felt right standing this close. Like my body recognized his and wanted to close the distance.
But we couldn't, we had to keep space and continue to sell this lie.
Performing hatred when I could still feel the way he'd looked at me in his dorm room. The ease we'd had before reality crashed back in.
I took the other side of the boat.
"You take bow," I said. Short. Clipped.
"Fine." His tone matched mine.
We lifted the boat down and carried it toward the dock without looking at each other. Our teammates were watching—I could feel the attention like heat on my skin. Liam Moore and Alex Harrington. Enemies since last year. The famous rivalry.
I kept my posture stiff. Defensive. Alex moved with that controlled precision he always had.
We set the boat in the water and grabbed our sculls.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yeah."
I climbed into the stroke seat—stern of the boat, the position that sets the rhythm. Behind me, toward the bow, Alex settled in.
The boat rocked as he found his balance. Every micro-movement traveled through the hull. The click of oar locks. The scrape of the seat on its track. His breathing, close enough to hear.
I couldn't see him, but I could feel him. Every shift. Every adjustment. The weight of his presence three feet behind me.
God, I just wanted to be alone with him again.
It was one thing to do this alone on the lake at Brackett. But together? In front of everyone?
Focus. Legs, back, arms. Catch, drive, finish.
Don't think about Saturday night. Don't think about the taste of his tongue—stop.
We pushed off from the dock.
The water was cold. I could feel it through the hull, the chill rising through the thin carbon fiber. Pre-dawn light was just starting to bleed into the sky, turning everything grey and soft.
Other boats launched around us. The coaches' launches idled nearby, megaphones ready.
"Ready," I said.
"Ready," Alex answered behind me.
I took the first stroke.
Cautious. Careful. Setting the rhythm.
Alex followed.
His timing was slightly off. Just a fraction of a second late on the catch. The boat wobbled—our drives not quite synchronized.
I adjusted. Pulled again, and he matched better this time.
Third stroke. Fourth. Fifth.
And then—
Something clicked.
The hull suddenly glided instead of fought. Our catches locked in at exactly the same moment—blades entering the water with one sound instead of two. The drive pressure matched perfectly, our legs pushing together, our finishes clean and simultaneous.
The rhythm found itself.
My breathing synced with his without thought. His exhale on the drive, his inhale on the recovery—and my body matched it automatically. Not decided. Not forced. Just happening.
The boat felt alive.
We took another stroke. Then another.
It was easy. Dangerously easy.
I feel Alex behind me and it was perfect, like he knew when I was about to catch before my blade touched water. Our bodies moved together like we'd been doing this for years instead of minutes. The connection was unreal.
When I was with him in a boat, nothing else existed.
"Catch tiny bit early," Alex said behind me.
"Got it."
I adjusted. He was right—I'd been rushing slightly, my eagerness pulling me ahead of the rhythm.
We rowed in silence for another minute. The boat gliding smooth beneath us, and the other boats around us but feeling very far away.
"You always row this light?" Alex's voice. A slight edge. Almost teasing.
"You always this heavy?" I shot back.
A pause. Then: "Yeah."
The sound of his voice made my chest hum.
I glanced toward the coaches' launch, and both Hale and Eldridge were watching. Taking notes. Clocking every stroke.
Shit. What if we're so good they keep us together?
I couldn't make the boat row worse on purpose—couldn't throw the rhythm without it being obvious to anyone who knew what synchronized rowing looked like.
So I kept rowing.
And it kept working.
Our blade work was clean. No splash on the entry. The run between strokes was perfect—the boat gliding forward on its own momentum during the recovery, speed building without effort.
My breathing was steady. Heart rate elevated but controlled. Legs burning in that good way that meant I was working but not dying.
Behind me, Alex's rhythm was locked with mine. Too perfect. Too natural. Too right.
And that was the problem.
The coaches called something from the launch. I didn't hear the words—couldn't focus past the rhythm we'd found. The water rushing past. Alex behind me. Us. Together.
It felt like Brackett Lake.
It felt like…