Chapter 23 Liam #2
And from the Kingswell side, quieter but there—a rhythmic clap. Someone organizing it. Someone getting the Kingswell supporters to actually make noise for once instead of sitting there like they were at a fucking tennis match.
The officials' launch was keeping pace between lanes two and three. The photographer leaning out over the water, shutter firing in rapid bursts.
I shut it out. All of it. Narrowed everything down to the boat and the body behind me and the two thousand meters that were slowly, brutally, becoming one thousand.
"We have to take Dartmouth now," Alex said. His voice was rough. Less controlled. The composure starting to fray at the edges. "If we let them sit on us into the third five hundred, they'll have enough for a sprint."
He was right. Dartmouth was a technical crew—they'd be conserving, rowing smart, saving something for the last 500. If we didn't break them in the middle thousand, they'd outrun us at the end.
"Power twenty," I said. "Everything. Right now."
"Ready."
"This one is for us… Now!"
Twenty strokes. I emptied everything into them. Every ounce of anger and want and denial and all the things I'd been carrying—all of it converted into the drive phase, legs slamming down, back swinging open, arms ripping through. The boat didn't just move. It leaped.
Alex matched me. Stroke for stroke. His breathing ragged now, not controlled anymore—desperate, hungry—but his blade work still perfect. Still there. Still with me.
One—two—three—four—Dartmouth's bow started to fall back.
Five—six—seven—eight—a seat. Then two.
They fought. God, they fought. Their stroke seat was grimacing, teeth bared, pulling like his life depended on it. The cadence call from their bow man getting louder, more frantic.
Nine—ten—eleven—twelve—
But the gap was opening. Inch by inch. Seat by seat.
Thirteen—fourteen—fifteen—
Dartmouth's rhythm broke. Not by much. But enough. A tiny splash on the catch—the first imperfection I'd seen from them all race. Their hull wobbled. Their speed dropped.
Sixteen—seventeen—eighteen—nineteen—twenty.
Open water.
Dartmouth was done. Not stopped—still rowing, still fighting—but they were behind us and they knew it. I could hear their stroke rate climbing, panic setting in. Too late.
But Princeton was still ahead.
1200 meters.
The gap to Princeton had closed during our push on Dartmouth—the surge carrying us forward, eating into their lead. Maybe three-quarters of a length now. Maybe less.
"I see them," Alex said behind me. Reading my mind. "Three-quarter length."
"Yeah."
"Blood in the water," Alex said.
"Ready ten?" I said.
"Kick it. Go."
The rating went up. 36. 38. Higher than we should've been able to sustain. Higher than any double should go at the twelve-hundred-meter mark with eight hundred left to race.
But we weren't any double.
The gap to Princeton closed. Stroke by stroke. Seat by seat.
My lungs were shredding. My vision was starting to narrow at the edges, everything tunneling down to the space between my oar handles and the water ahead.
1400 meters.
We pulled even with Princeton.
Their stroke seat—the big guy, the shaved head—turned and saw us. His face went through three things in half a second: surprise, fury, then something harder. Resolve.
He didn't fold. He kicked.
Princeton surged. Their rating spiked to match ours—38, 39—their bow man screaming now, a raw, desperate sound that carried across the water. The big stroke seat's face had gone purple. Veins standing out in his neck like ropes.
They pulled a half-seat ahead.
No.
My legs were dying. The lactic acid had turned my quads to concrete. Every drive was a war between what my body could give and what the race demanded. The oar handle was so slick I could barely grip it.
"They're fighting!" Alex shouted. No composure left. Just raw. "Don't let them have it!"
Somewhere in the roar—the crowd on both banks, on their feet now, the sound building into something physical—I heard Tyler again. Not words this time. Just a scream. Pure.
And from somewhere else, clear and cutting through everything like it was designed to—Remy's voice. The cox voice. The one that commanded boats.
"NOW, MOORE! FUCKING NOW!"
Something broke open in me.
Not my body. Something else. Some last reserve I didn't know I had—buried under months of denial, under the weight of pretending I didn't want what I wanted, under the exhaustion of performing someone I wasn't.
I stopped performing.
I just rowed.
"Power ten!" I shouted. "Last one! Everything!"
One—Alex and I moved as one body. Not two rowers in a boat. One organism.
Two—the hull lifted.
Three—Princeton's half-seat evaporated.
Four—level again. Their stroke seat's eyes met mine for one terrible, electric second.
Five—he was still pulling. Still fighting. I could hear him groaning on every drive, this animal sound that came from somewhere past exhaustion.
Six—but we were moving faster. Not by much. By millimeters.
Seven—our bow crept ahead.
Eight—a quarter-seat.
Nine—their stroke rate was faltering. 38 to 37. The tiniest crack. He was seizing up. I could see it in his catch—the blade entering a fraction late, his legs losing the snap.
Ten—half a length.
And somewhere in the noise—the officials' launch alongside us, the photographer's shutter going off in rapid bursts—capturing this.
Making it permanent. Whatever was happening in this boat right now wasn't just a race anymore.
It was a story. The scholarship kid and the legacy kid, rivals from opposite banks, rowing like one body in lane five.
I couldn't think about that. Couldn't think about what the footage would show—two guys who moved together like they shared a nervous system. Who finished each other's calls. Whose bodies knew each other in a way that went beyond training.
Just row.
1600 meters. 400 to go.
Princeton was falling back. Dartmouth somewhere behind them. Everyone behind us.
But we didn't ease up. Didn't settle. Because Princeton's stroke seat was still pulling—slower now, uglier, but still pulling. Still refusing to quit. And if we gave him an inch, he'd take it.
300 meters.
My vision was almost gone—just a tunnel of light with the finish line flags at the center.
I couldn't feel my hands anymore. Couldn't feel anything except the burn in my legs and the boat under me still running, still flying, still impossibly light despite the fact that both of us were dying inside it.
200 meters.
Alex's blade. My blade. The same sound. The same angle. The same water.
100 meters.
The crowd was deafening. Both banks. A wall of noise that I felt in my chest more than heard with my ears.
We crossed.
The noise hit like a wall.
I let the oars slip. Collapsed forward over my knees. Mouth open, gasping, gulping air that wouldn't come fast enough. Heart hammering so hard it hurt—a physical ache behind my sternum like something was trying to crack its way out.
My hands were trembling. Couldn't stop them.
Behind me, Alex was doing the same. I could hear it—the ragged, desperate breathing, the groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest. The boat still gliding on momentum. Still carrying us.
"Holy shit," he said. The words broken by breath.
I turned around in my seat.
His face was flushed dark. Hair plastered to his forehead. Chest heaving so hard his shoulders shook with every inhale. Sweat running down his neck into the collar of his uni.
And his eyes.
His eyes were bright and wrecked and looking at me like—
Like I was the only thing in the world.
My chest went tight for a reason that had nothing to do with the race.
"We just—" I couldn't finish. Couldn't get enough air for a full sentence.
"Yeah."
We sat there. In the middle of the course. The other boats crossing behind us—Princeton twenty seconds later, then Dartmouth, then the rest. I could hear their oars, but it was all background. Distant. Like the world had narrowed down to this boat and the two of us in it.
"I've never—" Alex stopped. Shook his head. Swallowed hard. "Never felt anything like that."
"Me neither."
"We're—" He looked at me. Something shifted in his expression. The mask he wore for everyone else—gone. Just Alex. Raw and open and still breathing too hard. "We're amazing together."
The words landed somewhere below my ribs.
Not that was good. Not we rowed well.
We're amazing together.
"Yeah," I said. "We are."
"Like we were made for this." His voice was rough. Wrecked. "Made for each other."
My throat closed up.
Because he wasn't talking about rowing anymore. We both knew he wasn't talking about rowing anymore.
"Yeah," I said again. And my voice sounded different. Even to me.
We looked at each other. In the bright October sun. In the middle of a course we'd just dominated. In front of everyone who'd come to watch.
And the thing I'd been shoving down for two years—the thing I'd buried under anger and Emily and rivalry and every excuse I could find—rose up so hard and so fast that I couldn't breathe.
Not denial this time.
Not fear.
Just him.
The sound of oars hitting water broke through. Other boats coming alongside. Voices calling out—congratulations, disbelief, noise rushing back in like someone had turned the volume up on the world.
We paddled toward the dock. My arms felt like they were made of sand.
Coach Eldridge was standing there. Clipboard on the ground next to him—not in his hand, not tucked under his arm. On the ground. Like he'd dropped it and forgotten.
"I've never seen anything like that," he said as we approached. His voice was different from the usual clinical precision. "In twenty years of coaching. Never."
Coach Hale was next to him. Grinning so wide it changed the shape of his face. "That's what I'm talking about. That's what this program is about."
We docked. Started climbing out. My legs nearly buckled when I stood—quads seizing, that post-2K tremor where your muscles don't trust solid ground anymore.
And then I saw him.