Chapter 6 Alex
Greek Row was alive with noise and light. Bass from multiple houses thumped through the night air, competing for dominance. Groups of students moved between parties, their voices carrying across front lawns, laughter mixing with shouting.
“You just need to get drunk enough to forget today happened,” Marcus said, clapping my shoulder as we walked up the dark street.
“That’s your solution to everything,” I said.
“Because it works.” He grinned. “Look, man. One race doesn’t define a season. You’ll come back. You always do.”
My jaw tightened. But that’s not what this was, that’s not what any of this was.
“Easy for you to say, you won your race today,” I said.
Marcus smirked and proceeded to tell me about how him and Collins did it.
My father had orchestrated the entire scrimmage. Set it up deliberately—either to let me destroy Liam so completely I could finally let go, or to let Liam destroy me so badly I’d have no choice but to walk away. One way or another, he wanted the connection severed.
And Liam had done his job perfectly.
Marcus kept talking, something about splits and technique, but I barely heard him. Anger simmered beneath my ribs—at my father for his manipulation, at myself for being so easy to control, at Liam for—
For what? For winning? For doing exactly what I would have done in his position?
No… for looking at me like I was nothing and like I’d never mattered.
I wanted to scream. To punch something. To go back to this morning and refuse to race at all. But I couldn’t say any of that to Marcus, and couldn’t explain why today felt like more than just a losing a race.
So I just nodded and said, “Yeah. I know.”
Collins walked a few steps ahead with Mason, their voices carrying back to us in fragments. Something about the freshman eight. How Riverside’s coxswain had “some kind of voodoo shit going on.”
The Kappa Alpha Theta house came into view—three stories of brick and white columns. I recognized it immediately. The same house from last year—the one with the champagne tower.
A roar erupted from inside—someone had probably just won a flip cup tournament, voices rising in drunken celebration.
“This is what you need,” Marcus said as we climbed the front steps. “Good party. Cheap beer. Maybe some Kingswell girl who doesn’t know you lost today.”
“Jesus, Marcus.”
“What? I’m being supportive.”
We pushed through the front door into a wall of heat and noise.
Bodies everywhere—dancing, shouting, pressed shoulder to shoulder in the narrow hallway.
The smell of beer and sweat and too much cologne hit me like a physical thing.
Music pounded from speakers I couldn’t see, bass vibrating through the floorboards.
Collins grabbed beers from a cooler near the entrance and handed them out. I took mine, the can cold and wet in my palm.
“Shotgun!” Marcus yelled, already pulling out his keys.
The Kingswell guys circled up, and I found myself going through the motions. Punctured the can. Tilted my head back. Let the beer flood my mouth, swallowing fast, tasting nothing.
Marcus crushed his can against his forehead and everyone cheered.
I felt detached, like I was watching myself from somewhere outside my body. These were my teammates. My friends. But right now, they felt like strangers.
Get it together. Just get through tonight.
We moved deeper into the house, pushing through the crowd. Someone’s elbow caught my ribs. A girl stumbled into me and apologized with a drunk giggle.
For a while, it almost worked. The noise, the chaos, the alcohol starting to buzz in my system, making everything softer around the edges. I could almost forget.
Then Collins pointed toward the back. “Isn’t that the Riverside crew?”
My stomach dropped.
Through the back windows, I could see them on the deck—Tyler, Remy, a couple others I recognized from this morning. And Liam.
Of course Liam.
He had his arm around a girl—brunette, laughing at something, her hand on his chest. They were both flushed and celebrating something. As I watched, she jumped up and he caught her, spinning her around, both of them grinning like they’d just won the lottery.
Beer pong. They’d just won at beer pong.
Something sharp twisted in my chest.
She kissed him. Quick, happy. His hand found the small of her back, holding her close.
Stop looking. Just stop.
But I couldn’t. I watched them through the window—watched the easy way he touched her, the way she fit against his side. The way he looked at her with something warm and unguarded.
The jealousy was irrational. Childish. I had no right to it.
And still it burned.
This is what needs to happen. He’s moved on and you need to move on.
I forced myself to look away and took a long pull from my beer. The alcohol tasted sour.
Cut it off. Sever the connection. Let him go.
“Come on,” Marcus said, already heading toward the back door. “Let’s go say hi.”
“Marcus—”
But he was already pushing through, and the rest of the Kingswell guys followed. I trailed behind, every instinct screaming at me to turn around, to leave, to be anywhere but here.
The back porch was massive—probably thirty feet across, with string lights crisscrossed overhead. People clustered around a keg, around the beer pong tables, bodies pressed close in the cool night air. Music slightly quieter out here but still loud enough that you had to raise your voice.
Marcus walked right up to where the Riverside crew was standing.
“Well, well,” he said, that edge in his voice I knew too well. “If it isn’t Riverside’s finest.”
Tyler’s smile faded. “Marcus.”
“Hell of a race today,” Marcus continued, his tone just on the wrong side of friendly. “Really impressive. Especially that freshman eight. You guys got a good program over there. Real... scrappy.”
Don’t do this. But I said nothing.
“We good here?” Remy asked, stepping forward. He was shorter than Marcus by a good eight inches, but something about his posture said he wasn’t backing down.
“Oh, we’re great. Just making conversation. That cool with you?” Marcus asked.
I put my hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Marcus. Let’s just—“
He shook off my hand.
“What? I’m being nice.” He took a sip of his beer, eyes still on Remy. “I mean, it’s gotta feel good, right? Big wins. Freshman eight crushing us. Moore here destroying Harrington. Huh?”
Liam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything.
Liam and Marcus had history—bad history from Brackett Lake.
I could still remember the heat of Liam’s chest under my palm when I’d stopped him from going after Marcus that day at the marina, the way his whole body had been coiled to strike. I could see it happening again.
Not good.
“You got something to say?” Tyler asked, moving to stand next to Remy.
“Nah, man. I’m just saying—respect. You guys showed up today.” Marcus’s smile was sharp. “Even with your little diversity hire over here leading the charge.”
The entire porch seemed to still.
“The fuck did you just say?” Remy’s voice was deadly quiet.
Conversations nearby faltered and people turned to look.
“Marcus,” Collins said, a warning.
But Marcus was already too far gone, alcohol and ego mixing into something ugly. “What? I’m just saying, it’s great that you guys are so... inclusive. Really progressive.”
“Walk away,” Liam said, his voice flat. “Right now.”
I wanted to grab Marcus. and pull him back. To do something. But instead I stood frozen, watching it all unfold.
Marcus turned to Liam, grinning. “Or what, Moore? You gonna cry about it? Maybe run to your little faggot friend here for support?”
The word hit hard, not just to Remy but me too.
I saw Remy’s face change—saw the flash of hurt before it turned to rage. Then Tyler moved forward—the whole porch was tense like a wire pulled too tight.
And then... Liam’s fist connected with Marcus’s face.
The sound was sickening—bone on bone, sharp and wet. Marcus went down hard, his beer exploding across the deck in a spray of foam. For a split second, everything hushed.
The music still pounded, but the porch went silent—bodies frozen, conversations stopped mid-word. That terrible moment of stillness before all hell breaks loose.
Liam stood over him, knuckles split and bleeding. “I’ve been dying to do that.”
And then... all hell broke loose.
Braden swung at Tyler. Someone from Riverside shoved Collins.
Bodies crashed together, fists flying, people screaming.
The crowd pressed in, some trying to back away, others pulled out their phones to film.
The keg tipped over, beer flooding across the porch.
A table went down, red cups scattering, bouncing.
I tried to back up, to get out of the way—
But someone grabbed my shirt and spun me around.
A Riverside guy I didn’t recognize—big, probably six-two, definitely a rower from the varsity boat. His face was twisted with anger, and he wound up to swing.
I braced for impact, but then I swung back.
My fist caught him in the jaw—not clean, glancing off, but enough to make him stumble. Pain exploded through my knuckles.
He came at me again, and we grappled, crashing into the railing, and my ribs hit the wood hard enough to make me gasp.
I shoved him back into someone else and they crashed to the ground, got my feet under me—
And someone else was on me. Their hands grabbed my jacket and pulled me into the chaos.
I caught a glimpse of Liam across the deck—he had someone pinned against the porch railing, blocking a punch.
More bodies pressed in. Someone’s elbow caught my cheek. I tasted blood.
Then a Riverside guy—different one, bigger—broke through the crowd heading straight for me, fist already cocked back.
Before I could react, Liam was there.
He caught the guy’s wrist mid-swing and yanked him back hard enough that he stumbled.
Our eyes met.
For a split second, there was something there. Something that looked like—concern? Protection? The same intensity I’d seen before, that pull between us that made everything else fade away.
He still—
But then Liam’s green eyes went cold. Hard as ice.
He shoved the guy away from me without a word and turned back to the chaos, like I was nothing. Like I wasn’t even there.
Why?
Before I could process it, someone else slammed into Liam from the side. They both went down in a tangle of limbs and curses, rolling across the beer-soaked deck.
“ENOUGH!”
The voice cut through the noise like a blade.
Derek Shaw appeared on the porch, Jace right behind him—the captains from both teams pushing through the crowd, grabbing guys and pulling them apart.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Derek had Liam by the arm, hauling him back.
Jace grabbed Tyler and Braden, physically separating them. “STOP. NOW.”
The fight broke apart slowly—guys still breathing hard, bloodied knuckles, split lips. The deck was a mess of spilled beer and overturned furniture. People from inside were crowding the doorway, phones out, filming.
Marcus was on the ground, nose bleeding, Braden helping him up. Blood dripped down his chin, staining his white shirt.
I looked around for Liam, and found him on the other side of the porch, the brunette girl at his side, a wiry guy with dark curly hair and glasses hovering nervously nearby.
His knuckles were split open, and there was a cut above his eyebrow already swelling.
“Are you okay?” the girl asked him, her hand on his arm.
“Fine,” Liam said, his voice rough.
He didn’t look at me.
“Party’s over,” Jace said, his voice hard. “Riverside—we’re leaving. Now.”
The Riverside crew started moving toward the exit, Tyler and Remy still throwing glares back at Marcus. Someone was helping another guy who’d taken a hit to the mouth, blood dripping from his lip.
I watched Liam go, the girl’s hand on his arm, guiding him away. The guy with glasses followed close behind, saying something I couldn’t hear.
Liam never looked back.
Not once.
“Fucking idiots,” Derek said, shaking his head at all of us.
I stood there, heart still racing, hand pressed to my ribs where someone had caught me with an elbow. My knuckles throbbed. The party was still going inside—most people hadn’t even noticed what happened out here, or didn’t care.
But I’d noticed. I’d seen the look in Liam’s eyes before they went cold.
For just a second I thought that he still cared.
No. Couldn’t be.
He’d made his position clear on the water this morning. I was nothing to him.
Marcus spat blood onto the deck. “Worth it,” he said.
I turned away from him, from all of it. My ribs ached. My face hurt. Everything hurt.
I needed another beer. Needed to not think about the way Liam had looked at me—that flash of something before it went cold.
Because there was nothing left to think about.
Nothing at all.