Chapter 6 Alex
Flying.
That's what it felt like.
I was in bow seat, watching Liam's back in front of me, and every stroke locked in perfectly. His rhythm, my rhythm—no difference. Just one continuous motion, our bodies moving together like we'd never stopped.
The boat glided beneath us, both responsive and alive.
The power in Liam's shoulders was visible on every drive—blade catching the water clean, releasing smooth. My catches matched his exactly. Not because I was trying but because my body knew this, knew him.
A year and a half since we'd rowed together at Brackett Lake. When we'd finished and he'd looked at me with those eyes and said it felt like flying.
This felt the same.
Exactly the same.
Heat built in my chest and spread lower—but it wasn't from exertion.
My body was responding to him.
Right here in the boat. In the middle of practice. With coaches watching and teammates around and Liam in front of me, his back flexing with each stroke.
I should have been horrified. Should have been calculating the risk—who might notice, what they might see. But I couldn't make myself care. Not right now. This was me and Liam. This was who we were.
I focused back on technique. Legs, back, arms. Clean catches. Smooth finishes. Let the mechanics carry me.
But my body kept responding to the rhythm we'd found.
My breath came faster.
I couldn't stop this. Couldn't discipline it away. Could only hope no one noticed when we came off the water.
The words came out before I could stop them.
"God, this is amazing."
Liam's rhythm stuttered for half a stroke. Then recovered.
A pause. "Yeah... it is."
"I forgot what this felt like," I said.
The other boats were distant. The coaches' launch not directly alongside us. This was as private as we'd get on the water.
"Me too. It's like at the lake."
He felt it too.
My throat went tight. "We're good together."
The words hung in the cold air. Loaded. Could mean rowing. Could mean everything else.
Liam was quiet for three strokes. Then: "Too good."
My chest ached. Because he was right. This was dangerous. People could notice; they were probably already noticing.
But I couldn't make myself care, not when everything felt this right.
We rowed in silence after that. The conversation was over, but something had shifted between us—the wall that was supposed to stay up had cracked, and neither of us had moved to fix it.
"Bring it in," Coach Eldridge's voice carried across the water.
We paddled toward the dock. Other boats were already landing—the teams mixing on the dock with surprising civility. No confrontation. Just rowers doing what rowers did after practice: hauling boats, stretching, talking technique.
My arousal hadn't faded. I'd have to be careful climbing out—keep my body angled away.
We reached the dock. Liam climbed out first. I followed, keeping my movements precise and grabbed the gunwale to help lift the boat.
Our hands were close on the hull, not touching, but close enough that the heat between us was a physical thing.
"You guys looked good out there."
I looked up. Coach Hale stood on the dock, clipboard in hand, watching us with that neutral coach expression that gave nothing away.
Liam tensed beside me. I could feel it without looking.
I forced my face into polite professionalism. "Thank you, sir. Alex Harrington."
"I know who you are." Hale's voice was dry. "Your great-grandfather built that boathouse." He nodded toward the building.
"Yes, sir."
Hale's eyes shifted to Liam. "Moore. That's the best I've seen you row in a double. Ever."
Liam's jaw tightened. "Thanks, Coach."
"Natural pairing," Hale said, looking between us. "Timing locked in fast. You two have history?"
My throat went tight.
History. We did. But nothing Hale would want to hear about.
Liam answered before I could. "Nope."
"Hmm." Hale made a note on his clipboard. "Well, whatever it is, it works."
He walked away to check another boat.
I glanced at Liam. He was staring at the water, jaw clenched.
Our eyes met for half a second. Something passed between us—panic, or the recognition that people were seeing what we couldn't hide.
Then Liam's face hardened.
"Your catches were early at the 500," he said. Loud enough for people nearby to hear.
I blinked, taking a second to understand what he was doing.
"They weren't early," I said, matching his tone. "You were late on the recovery."
"Bullshit. I was right on pace."
"Your pace was off."
We faced each other now. Close enough that it looked like confrontation, far enough that it wasn't threatening.
Anyone watching would see two rowers arguing about technique. Not two people who'd been flying together ten minutes ago.
Liam turned and grabbed the end of the shell. I followed his lead. We lifted the double out of the water without speaking, carried it toward the racks, and set it down carefully.
"Well, well. Perfect little duo out there."
Marcus.
I turned. He was leaning against the dock railing, that entitled smirk I'd seen a thousand times. The one that meant he was about to be a total dick.
Liam went rigid beside me.
"Didn't know you two were so... compatible," Marcus continued.
My jaw tightened. "Rowing, Marcus. You should try it sometime."
"Oh, I do." His smirk widened. "Just not quite so... synchronized."
Liam took a step forward.
"Don't make me hit you again."
Barely above a whisper, and spoken through his teeth—deadly.
Marcus's smirk faltered. His hand went to his jaw—still healing from the party fight.
Then the smirk came back. "Touchy."
"Walk away, Marcus," I said.
He did. Slowly to make it look like his choice.
A few other Kingswell guys were nearby. Watching. The tension thick enough to taste.
I looked at Liam. Fists clenched. Face hard. Everything about him barely controlled anger.
Our eyes met.
Everything from the water—gone. The honesty, the connection, the ease. Replaced by walls and performance and the ugliness of what we had to pretend to be.
Liam turned and walked toward where the Riverside team was gathering, and didn't look back.
I stood there, my chest tight, and hands still cold from the river water.
The whiplash—from flying to this—settled in my stomach like nausea.
I forced myself to move. Grabbed my water bottle and started walking toward the boathouse.
Then to make everything worse—I saw her.
Up on the Riverwalk Bridge, standing near the railing. Dressed for the cold—jacket and scarf, arms wrapped around herself. Waiting.
Emily.
My stomach dropped.
Liam spotted her across the distance. His whole body shifted—face changing into something more complicated than I could name from here. Not relief. Not the way someone looks when they see the person they want.
Guilt, maybe. Or resignation.
He said goodbye to his teammates and started walking toward the bridge.
My teammates were heading inside. Voices and laughter echoing in the boathouse. I should go with them. Shower. Change. Move on with my day like a normal person who didn't just spend forty minutes flying in a boat with someone he'd had sex with two days ago.
But my feet carried me in a different direction.
Away from the boathouse. Up the sloping field toward campus. Cold grass crunching under my shoes, cold air cutting through my warmup.
Halfway up the hill, near the large oak with bare branches, I stopped.
The bridge was clearly visible from here. Liam reaching the halfway point where Emily waited.
I shouldn't watch this.
Pathetic. Standing here on a hill like some lovesick stalker, watching a conversation that had nothing to do with me.
Except it did. Because whatever happened down there would determine what Saturday night meant. What this morning meant. Whether I'd been fooling myself about all of it.
My hand found the rough bark of the oak and gripped it.
Down on the bridge, Liam approached slowly. Emily's posture was stiff—arms wrapped around herself. Not the body language of someone excited for a reunion. The body language of someone bracing for impact.
They stood a few feet apart.
Liam said something. Emily didn't move closer.
She started talking—arms uncrossing to gesture the way people do when they're trying to make someone understand. Her face upset. Maybe angry.
She knows something happened.
The realization tightened my chest further.
And now Liam was trying to fix it. Trying to make her believe whatever story he'd constructed.
He said something and Emily's face changed—hurt flashing across it, sharp and visible even from this distance.
She looked away toward the water. Arms crossing again.
Liam stepped closer and his hand lifted like he might reach for her, then dropped.
He's apologizing. For me. For what we did.
They talked for what felt like forever. The distance between them staying constant. Two people trying to bridge a gap that hadn't been there before.
A gap I'd helped create.
Emily wiped at her face—she must have been crying.
Liam noticed stepped closer, and this time she didn't step back.
No.
He said something. She nodded and then his arms went around her.
No. No. No.
Not a hug she started. It was Liam, the guy who had my dick in his mouth a few nights ago, comforting his ex-girlfriend. It was the kind of hug that said I'm sorry and please forgive me and I choose you, all at once.
I couldn't believe this was happening; it was all falling apart—for me.
Emily's arms stayed at her sides for a long moment. Then slowly—reluctantly—they came up around him.
She held on.
They stood there together. Liam's face buried in her shoulder and Emily's arms tight around him.
Then Liam pulled back and kissed her.
The air left my lungs.
It wasn't desperate or passionate, it was gentle and tender.
My hand gripped the bark harder. The rough texture bit into my palm until it stung.
I could still feel what it was like to kiss Liam. Two nights ago in his dorm room—the weight of him, the hunger, the way he'd tasted. The desperate sounds he'd made against my mouth. The way his hands pulling me close, as if he couldn't get close enough.
There was no way she had that with him. That was us—only us.
But it didn't matter because clearly he was choosing her, anyway.
They broke apart. Emily said something. Liam nodded. She touched his face once—brief, affectionate—then turned and walked back toward campus.
Liam stayed on the bridge.
He stood there for a long moment, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, staring down at the dark water. The wind lifted his hair. His shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.
Then he turned and looked back toward the Kingswell side.
My breath caught.
For a second, I thought—
But no. He turned away. Started walking toward Riverside, following the path Emily had taken.
The certainty landed cold and absolute in my chest.
Saturday night meant nothing—just a moment of weakness he already regretted. The rowing this morning changed nothing—just muscle memory and athletic chemistry that I'd mistaken for something deeper.
He was always going to choose her. The girlfriend who fit into his life. The relationship that made sense. Normal over whatever complicated, impossible thing existed between us.
And I was always going to be the secret. The mistake. The thing that happened in the dark that he'd spend the rest of his life pretending didn't matter.
If I let myself feel this fully, I'd break.
So I didn't let myself feel anything at all.