Chapter 23 Liam #3
Alex's father. Standing apart from the crowd. Arms crossed. Face unreadable in that specific way that wasn't neutral at all—it was controlled. Calculating. The same expression he probably wore in boardrooms when a deal went sideways.
Our eyes met for a second.
He gave a small nod. The kind that acknowledged a result without approving of anything. Without conceding anything.
Then he turned and walked away. Unhurried. Like he'd seen what he came to see.
I looked at Alex.
His jaw had gone tight. I watched the muscle work under his skin—the clench, the release, the clench again. His shoulders rigid. His hands, still gripping the gunwale, white at the knuckles.
Then something in him let go. Not everything. But enough.
"Fuck him," Alex said quietly. Just for me. "We did it anyway."
Before we could de-rig the boat, the Riverside team swarmed us.
Tyler first—still nursing his wrapped hand but using the good one to pound my back hard enough to rattle my teeth. Jace right behind him, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me. Remy with that quiet grin that said more than anyone else's shouting. And Noah pushing through the crowd.
Everyone from Riverside was there celebrating but the Kingswell guys were nowhere to be found. Except for Ethan, who had his camera up, capturing everything with that steady focus he brought to all his work.
"That was insane!" Tyler was yelling. "You absolute—"
"—destroyed them!" Jace's voice cracking with it.
And then—
Hands. Too many hands. Grabbing us. Lifting.
"What are you—" Alex started. I heard the alarm in his voice—the instinct to resist, to maintain control.
"Tradition!" someone yelled.
They carried us toward the edge of the dock. Both of us. Over their heads like we weighed nothing, which we definitely didn't.
"Wait—" I tried.
Too late.
The water hit me like a fist. Cold. October-river cold—the kind that seized your lungs and stopped your brain for a full second. I went under completely, still in full gear, the shock of it so total that everything else just—stopped.
I came up gasping. Sputtering. Water streaming down my face, tasting like river silt and cold metal.
Alex surfaced next to me. Close. His hair slicked back, water beading on his face, and despite the cold—despite everything—he was laughing. This startled, real laugh that cracked open his composure in a way I'd almost never heard.
I was laughing too. Couldn't help it. The absurdity of it. The relief. The two of us treading water in the middle of October in our racing gear while our teammates lost their minds on the dock above us.
And not just Riverside—I could see some Kingswell guys up there too. Cheering. The barrier between the teams crumbling in this one moment of pure, stupid, earned joy.
Then I noticed the camera crew. On the bank, thirty feet away. The long lens pointed right at us. The red recording light steady and unblinking. The reporter saying something into a handheld mic, gesturing toward where we treaded water.
Two guys laughing in a river. That's all the footage would show. Teammates celebrating. Nothing more.
But my stomach tightened anyway. Because I knew what was underneath the laughter. And cameras had a way of catching things you didn't mean to show.
Alex must have seen them too. His eyes tracked to the bank and back to me—quick, automatic, the risk calculation I'd seen him run a thousand times.
But this time, something was different. This time he didn't flinch.
Didn't rearrange his face. Just looked at me with the water between us and those wrecked, bright eyes, and let the camera see whatever it wanted to see.
Alex swam closer. Not much. Just enough that his hand brushed my arm under the water where nobody could see.
"My room," he said. Quiet enough that the chaos above drowned it out. His voice low. "Tonight."
My stomach dropped. Heat cutting through the river cold like it was nothing.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His eyes held mine. Water on his lashes. Close enough that I could see his pulse hammering in his throat. Close enough that if I leaned forward six inches—
Hands reached down from the dock. Tyler's. Remy's. Someone else's.
"Come on, you idiots, you're gonna freeze!"
We let them pull us out. Hands grabbing, everyone talking at once. Noah cheering. Ethan's camera steady.
The sports reporter was on the dock now. Moving toward us through the crowd with her mic and her cameraman. Professional smile. The kind of energy that meant she smelled a story.
"Incredible race," she said, eyes on both of us. "Can I get a quick word? The viewers are going to want to hear from the pair that just beat Princeton, Dartmouth, and the rest of the field from lane five."
Alex straightened. I watched the shift happen—the jaw setting, the shoulders going back, the composure sliding into place like armor.
Full Harrington. The version of himself he wore for audiences.
But there was something different underneath it now.
Something looser. Like the armor didn't fit quite as tight as it used to.
"Of course," he said.
She turned to me. Mic extended. "Liam Moore, Riverside State. How does it feel?"
I was still dripping. Still shaking. Still buzzing with adrenaline and river cold and the ghost of Alex's hand on my arm.
"Feels pretty good," I said.
She smiled. The cameraman zoomed in. "Any comment on the partnership? A lot of people said a Kingswell-Riverside pairing couldn't work."
I glanced at Alex. He was watching me. That careful, steady look—the one that said I'm right here without saying anything at all.
"They were wrong," I said. Simple. Looking at her but talking to him.
She asked a few more questions. Alex handled most of them—smooth, articulate, the perfect sound bite about collaboration and competition and the value of the joint program. Saying all the right things in that Harrington way that made everything sound rehearsed even when it wasn't.
I stood next to him and let him talk. Watched the cameraman frame us together—two guys in soaked racing gear, standing close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Teammates. That's what the footage would say.
Let it.
The reporter thanked us and moved on. The cameraman swung his lens toward the coaches. The red light tracked away from us.
I exhaled.
And I looked at Alex.
Water dripping from his hair. Chest still heaving. That laugh still fading from his face, leaving behind something quieter. Something just for me.
Tonight.
Whatever happened tonight would change everything.
But right now—right now we'd just proven to everyone watching that we were exactly where we belonged.
Together.