Chapter 17 Liam
Four doubles at the starting line. Water cold and dark beneath us. October wind cutting across the river.
I leaned forward. Blade squared. Grip tightened on the handles.
Alex behind me in bow. I could hear his breathing. Feel the weight of him in the boat. The way our bodies had already found the same rhythm without trying—catches syncing before the first stroke, like muscle memory that existed before we'd earned it.
"You ready to win this?" Alex asked.
"It's the only thing I'm ready for."
And it was true, the last week had been chaos, but today was all about the boat. It didn't matter who I chose, who I hurt, and who I was.
"Ready..." Hale's voice echoed through his megaphone.
Last night, I broke down in front of Noah and told him everything. Cried like I hadn't since I was a kid. And I felt lighter now, not fixed, just lighter.
I had to stop fighting what I couldn't control. What was going to happen… was going to happen. That was it.
One thing I knew I could control was this race. I was ready to show everyone, not only was I good in a single. But I could dominate in a double too… a double with Alex.
"Row!"
We exploded off the line.
Ten strokes to build. My legs drove hard—full compression, full extension, every fiber in my quads firing. Blade entering clean. The shell surged forward beneath us.
Marcus and Thompson were right there in the lane beside us. Both strong rowers. Both pushing. Marcus's face set in that competitive grimace he always wore.
"Settle!" I called.
We dropped into race pace. Thirty-two strokes per minute.
And just like that—we found it.
Alex and me.
The boat came alive.
My blade caught the water at the exact microsecond as Alex's. Our slides moved in perfect mirror. The shell responded like it was an extension of our bodies—not fiberglass and carbon fiber but something living, something that wanted to fly.
The river was cold against my calves where spray kicked up. Wind bit at my face. Quads starting to burn.
Five hundred meters down.
Marcus's boat stayed even with us. The churn of their oars. The grunt of effort.
But we were smoother. Cleaner. Every stroke more efficient.
"Five hundred down!" Hale's voice from the launch. "Stay long!"
My lungs starting to scream and the burn in my legs intensifying with every drive.
Behind me, Alex's breathing was steady. His catches timed perfectly with mine.
We weren't talking, because we didn't need to, our bodies communicated through feeling and movement.
It was like the admission, the apology, the kiss in the boathouse brought us back. We were in and we both wanted to win this. There wasn't a trace of whatever mess we rowed the other morning.
One thousand meters. Halfway.
Still even with Marcus.
The other two boats had fallen back—half a length behind already. But Marcus and Thompson were right there. Refusing to break.
My vision started to narrow. Everything reducing to sensation.
The catch—blade entering the water at the perfect angle.
The drive—legs pushing, back swinging, arms pulling through.
The recovery—body sliding forward, blade feathering over the surface.
Again. Again. Again.
Twelve hundred meters.
Alex shifted slightly behind me. Leaned into the next stroke just a fraction harder.
I matched him without thinking.
Fucking perfect.
Our rating climbed. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.
Marcus responded. His boat inching forward.
Fuck that.
Eight hundred meters to go.
This was where races broke. Where you either had it or you didn't.
My whole body was on fire. Muscles screaming. Lungs shredding. That specific 2K burn where every breath feels like your last.
But I wasn't done… and neither was Alex.
I could feel it in the way the boat moved beneath us. In the way our rhythm hadn't wavered a fraction. In the way his blade still hit the water at the exact same moment as mine, stroke after stroke after stroke.
"Ready to do this, golden boy?"
The words came out rough. Breathless.
Behind me I could feel Alex light up—this was our moment.
"Power ten," I called. "On this one. Now!"
We exploded.
One.
The boat lifted. Actually lifted—hull breaking free of the water's grip, running so light it felt like the river wasn't even there.
Two. Three. Four.
Heat flooded through me. Not just exertion. Something deeper. The perfect synchronization. The way Alex's body moved with mine. The way the shell responded like we were one organism.
Five. Six. Seven.
This was us. This was who we were together. This was what I'd been denying for months—burying under Emily and excuses and fear.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
Half a length ahead of Marcus.
"Again!" Alex shouted behind me.
His voice was raw. Electric. Like he felt it too—this thing between us that had nothing to do with rowing and everything to do with it.
Another power ten.
We flew.
Every stroke pure propulsion. Hull barely touching water. No drag. No waste. Just speed and perfect connection and Alex's breathing matching mine and the burn building in my core until I couldn't tell where rowing ended and wanting began.
Seventeen hundred meters.
Two lengths ahead of Marcus now. The other boats were ghosts.
It was just us. The water. The rhythm. The burn.
Two hundred to go.
"Sprint it home!"
Hale's voice sounded far away. Everything sounded far away except Alex's breathing behind me and the sound of our blades cutting water in perfect unison.
One hundred meters.
Fifty.
Twenty.
We crossed the line.
I collapsed forward over my handles. Gasping. Whole body shaking with effort and adrenaline and something I couldn't name but felt in every cell.
Behind me, Alex was breathing just as hard. The boat rocking as his chest heaved.
"Holy shit," he said.
I laughed. Couldn't help it. The sound coming out half-wrecked. "Yeah."
The coaches launch pulled up next to us.
"Five forty-eight!" Hale's voice carried across the water. "That's the fastest time I've seen from in three years!"
Eldridge beside him. "Whatever you two did at fifteen hundred—do that Sunday."
The launch buzzed away back to dock.
Sunday. The invitational. It was official—we were in.
My body was still buzzing and still vibrating with what just happened. With rowing with Alex like that.
We started the paddle back to the dock.
"That was..." Alex started from behind me.
"Yeah, next level."
Silence for three strokes. Just our blades dipping in and out. Cool air on flushed skin.
"I've never felt anything like that," he said.
Me neither.
I didn't say it out loud. Just kept paddling. Trying to get my breathing under control. Trying to ignore the fact that my body was still responding—blood hot, skin buzzing, everything below my waist a problem—and we were about to dock in front of forty people.
Think about something else. Anything else.
Cold water. The ache in my quads. The blister forming on my left palm where the tape had slipped.
Didn't help.
The Riverside dock was chaos.
I could hear it before we reached it—voices carrying across the water, the hollow thud of guys stomping on the wooden planks. Tyler was right at the edge, both hands cupped around his mouth, legs planted wide like he was calling a damn football game.
"Moore power!" His voice cracked across the river. "Moore power!"
Jace stood next to him, arms crossed, grinning that rare grin he only gave when one of ours did something worth grinning about.
Other Riverside guys picked it up. The chant bouncing between them, getting louder with each rep.
"Moore power! Moore power!"
The sound hit my chest like a drumbeat. I couldn't help the grin that split across my face—stupid, wide, the kind I couldn't fake. Guys were slapping the dock with open palms, the wood rattling under their hands. Someone let out a whistle that cut through everything.
This. This was what it felt like to have people in your corner.
Our hull glided into the dock bumpers with a soft thunk.
Tyler was right at the edge, bouncing on his toes like he couldn't contain himself. Jace behind him, arms crossed, but the corner of his mouth was doing that thing it did when he was impressed and didn't want to show it.
"Dude." Tyler grabbed the bow as we came in. "What the hell was that? You guys had a full length by the 1500"
"Length and a half," Jace corrected.
I climbed out first. Legs shaking—not from nerves, from the effort. Alex followed me.
"That move at the last five hundred." Tyler was still going, talking with his whole body. "Your whole boat lifted."
"We fly." Alex said from behind.
A few of the other Riverside guys crowded closer. Hands clapping our shoulders. The noise of it—laughter, voices overlapping, the hollow thud of palms on the dock planks—wrapped around me like something warm.
Then Remy appeared. Cox box headset still dented into his coils, clipboard tucked under one arm. He stopped in front of me, looked up and his eyes were doing that calculating thing. Reading me like he read a race.
"That wasn't a scrimmage piece. That was a statement." Remy winked.
"Thanks, man." I couldn't help but smile.
"Don't thank me. Just do it again when it counts." He glanced past me at Alex and back to me. He nodded and walked off.
"Alright, bring it in!" Hale's whistle cut through the noise. "Boats up, equipment away. I want a clean bay in fifteen minutes."
The dock started to clear. Guys peeling off in pairs to grab their shells, voices fading as they moved toward the racks. Tyler gave me one more shove on the shoulder before jogging off.
And then it was just us.
Our eyes met for half a second.
His face was flushed. Hair plastered to his forehead. A vein still visible in his neck from the effort. And his eyes—dark, open, unguarded in a way he never let himself be on land.
Something passed between us. Not a word. Not a nod. Just the shared knowledge that what had happened out there wasn't rowing. Wasn't technique or timing or anything coaches could put on a clipboard.
It was us.
Then he reached for the gunwale and the moment broke.