Chapter 17 Liam #2
We carried the double into the boathouse together. My hands on one end, his on the other. The shell between us like a barrier and a connection at once.
Both teams converged in the main bay. Riverside buzzing. Kingswell subdued.
"Nice race, Moore." Marcus's voice cut through the chatter. Arms crossed near the boat racks. "Home field advantage."
The bay got quieter.
"It's the same river Marcus and we're all using the same equipment," I said.
"Yeah, but you practice on this garbage every day. Kind of gives you an advantage."
Tyler stepped forward. "Are you seriously blaming the equipment?"
"I'm stating facts."
"The fact is you lost." Tyler was moving toward him. "Maybe it wasn't the boats. Maybe it was the rower."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Watch it."
They were face to face now. The teams dividing—Riverside toward Tyler, Kingswell shifting toward Marcus.
I stepped between them.
"Enough."
Both stopped.
"Tyler, back off." Then to Marcus: "And you need to stop talking shit. You lost because we rowed better. That's it."
Marcus's face went hard.
"We're all here to get better," I said. Looking between them. Between the teams. "That's the whole point. So either we do that, or we spend the next week pissing on each other and accomplish nothing."
Silence.
Tyler stepped back first, still glaring but backing down.
Marcus held my gaze another second. Then turned away and a few Kingswell guys followed him. "Whatever. Have fun with your little boyfriend."
The word hit me somewhere under my ribs.
Boyfriend.
My face stayed neutral. But my pulse kicked up and heat crawled across the back of my neck—the kind that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the fact that Marcus had just said out loud the thing I might actually want Alex to be.
I caught Alex's eye across the bay. Whatever had been on his face a second ago was gone. The mask was back—jaw set, eyes flat, posture perfect. Full Harrington. Like someone had flipped a switch the moment the word left Marcus's mouth.
But his hands on the oar he was racking weren't quite steady.
Then Hale's voice from the doorway. "Moore. Got a minute?"
I followed him outside.
The morning sun was low, casting long shadows across the dock planks. Hale leaned against the boathouse wall. His grey-streaked hair was its usual mess, wind pushing it across his forehead.
He looked like what he was a guy who'd spent thirty years on the water and never quite came back to land.
"That was good," he said. "What you did in there."
I shrugged. "Just trying to keep everyone from killing each other."
"It's leadership." He paused. "The kind that matters. Not just being fastest or strongest. Knowing when to step up and defuse something before it escalates."
I nodded.
"You and Harrington." His eyes were serious. "That was the best rowing I've seen in years of coaching. Maybe longer."
My chest tightened.
"Sunday's scrimmage—you two are in the race." He watched my face. "Everyone's going to be watching. Donors. Alumni. Scouts. Both teams. And if you row like you did today?"
He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
"That's captain material, Moore." He clapped my shoulder once. "Keep it up."
He walked back inside.
I stood there. The word echoing.
Captain.
Something hot and complicated moved through my chest. Pride. Surprise. The ache of wanting something you didn't think you were allowed to want.
I should've felt simple about it. Just proud. Just grateful.
Instead my gut was twisted up. Because Sunday wasn't just a race anymore. Sunday was me and Alex in a boat together—doing what we'd just done—while Emily watched from the dock. While both teams watched. While coaches took notes and scouts assessed and everyone saw what Hale had just seen.
That we flew.
The boathouse door scraped open behind me.
"Hey."
Alex's voice. Low. Careful.
I turned.
He stood in the doorway. The fabric of his tech shirt clinging to his chest where sweat had soaked through. Blond dark with it, pushed back off his forehead. Those blue eyes—steady, searching, locked on mine.
We were alone. The dock empty. Everyone else inside racking boats.
"That was..." he started. Then stopped. His hand came up to the back of his neck—that thing he did when the Harrington composure was slipping. "The race. I mean, the piece. That was—"
"Yeah."
Silence. The river lapping against the pilings. A gust rattling the chain on the flagpole above us.
Alex took a breath. "Sunday's going to be—"
"I know."
"—different. With people watching. Scouts. My father."
My jaw tightened at that. His father.
"Your father can watch whatever he wants. Doesn't change what we do on the water."
Something flickered in Alex's eyes. He took a step closer. Just one. But the distance between us shrank in a way that had nothing to do with feet.
"Liam." His voice dropped. Almost a whisper. "What we did out there—"
"Was rowing." The words came out too fast. The denial reflex kicking in even when my whole body was screaming the opposite.
Alex's jaw set and he looked at the dock planks, then back at me.
"Right," he said. The mask sliding back into place. "Just rowing."
But he didn't move. And neither did I. And the space between us was doing that thing it always did—shrinking, heating, turning the air thick until breathing felt like work.
My pulse was hammering. I could feel it in my throat. In my wrists. Lower.
Don't. Not here.
"Mixer's Saturday," I said. Forcing my voice steady. "Scrimmage Sunday."
"I know."
"So we keep it clean until then. Professional."
"Professional." A ghost of something crossed his face. Not quite a smile. More like he was tasting the word and finding it absurd. "Sure."
Emily would be at the mixer. She'd be watching me.
And I'd be standing in a room with Alex pretending he was just my doubles partner while my body remembered every sound he'd made on that water.
Every stroke where we'd breathed together.
Every second where the boat had disappeared and it was just us.
All the problems that had seeminlgy disappeared for the last hour came crashing back. Everything was still a mess and all I really wanted was win this race… and be with Alex. But I couldn't just lead him on or Emily.
Fuck.
"We should go back in," Alex said turning for the door.
"Alex?" I grabbed his arm.
Neither of us moved.
His eyes dropped to my mouth. Fast. Just a flicker—there and gone. But I caught it. And the heat that shot through my chest made my hands clench at my sides.
"Let's just get through the weekend—we'll figure the rest out. I promise."
Alex blinked. Straightened. The Harrington mask snapping into place so fast it was almost impressive.
"See you Saturday," he said. And walked back inside.
I stayed on the dock, the October wind biting through my shirt. The river dark and flat now that the boats were in. My legs still shaking. My chest still tight.
Just rowing.
I almost laughed.
My body knew what it was. Had known since Brackett Lake. Since the closet. Since every practice where our strokes synced and the boat came alive and I couldn't tell where I ended and he started.
I wasn't done pretending. That was the problem. I wasn't brave enough to stop. Not yet. Not with Emily still in the picture and the team watching and everything I'd worked for balanced on the edge of a blade.
But the pretending was getting harder every day that went by, and every time those blue eyes found mine across the boathouse.
I took a breath.
A few more days.
I headed back inside.