Chapter 9 Liam
“Too early,” he mumbled into his pillow. “Rowing is a crime against humanity.”
“Go back to sleep.”
He fell asleep.
I got up, moved quietly through the dark room. Pulled on shorts, a long-sleeve tech shirt, grabbed my Riverside hoodie. The bruise on my ribs from Saturday night was tender but not too bad. Could’ve been worse.
Could’ve been a lot worse.
I thought about Saturday—the race, the party, the fight, Emily’s dorm afterward. The way she’d looked at me. The way we’d moved together. The “I love you” that had felt real and solid and right.
Everything felt clearer now. Like I’d finally put things in the right order. Beat Alex on the water. Stood up for my teammate. Made things right with Emily.
I felt good. Centered. Ready.
Monday morning practice was going to be easy.
The walk to the boathouse was cold and dark, my breath making clouds in the air. Campus was dead at this hour—just a few lights in dorm windows, the distant sound of a car on the main road.
When I got to the boathouse, most of the team was already there. The usual pre-practice energy—guys grabbing oars, checking rigging, talking shit about who was still hungover from the weekend.
But something felt off.
The vibe was subdued. Tense. People were talking quieter than usual, and when I walked in, a few guys looked at me and then away quickly. Tyler was sitting on a bench near the slings, his right hand wrapped in a splint.
“Shit,” I said, stopping. “Your hand?”
“Sprained finger.” He held it up. “Some Kingswell asshole caught me wrong when I grabbed his shirt.”
My stomach dropped. “Fuck, man. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” But his voice was flat.
Evan walked past with a black eye that looked painful even from a distance. Jackson had a busted lip. And when I looked around more carefully, I realized at least two or three guys were missing entirely.
The high from Saturday night evaporated.
“Everyone in the bay,” Coach Hale’s voice cut through the space. “Now.”
We moved. Nobody argued, nobody dragged their feet. The tone in his voice made it clear: this wasn’t going to be fun.
The bay was cold, the big overhead doors still closed. We gathered on the wooden benches, about twenty of us, plus Coach Hale standing in front of the whiteboard with his arms crossed.
His expression was stone.
I’d seen Coach Hale angry before. I’d seen him disappointed. But this was different. This was the kind of cold fury that made your stomach clench.
He let the silence hang for a long moment. Long enough that guys started shifting uncomfortably.
“Saturday,” he said finally, his voice even and measured, “you proved you could beat Kingswell on the water.”
Pride flickered in my chest. We had. We’d dominated that scrimmage.
“Saturday,” Hale continued, “you rowed with discipline, with power, with precision. You represented this program exactly the way you should.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Saturday night,” he said, and his voice went harder, “you proved you’re still children.”
The words landed like a slap.
“Tyler.” Hale looked at him. “Show everyone your hand.”
Tyler held up the splint.
“Sprained finger. Four weeks minimum before he can grip an oar. Possibly longer.” Hale’s jaw was tight. “Look at Evan, Jackson, and Liam. That doesn’t include three of your teammates that won’t be back until Spring.”
He turned to face all of us. The blood drained from my face—this was my fault.
“And that’s just our team. Kingswell had three athletes injured. Rodriguez—broken nose. One of their freshmen—sprained wrist. Another with a concussion.”
My chest felt tight. A concussion?
“You had a perfect victory,” Hale said. “Clean. Earned. The kind of win that makes programs proud. The kind of win that scouts remember.”
His voice dropped lower.
“And you threw it away for a frat brawl.”
Nobody spoke or moved.
“Do you know what I did yesterday?” Hale asked. “I called Coach Eldridge at Kingswell. And I apologized. I apologized for my team’s behavior after we beat them fair and square.”
The weight of that hung in the air.
“I’ve been coaching for twenty years,” Hale said. “I’ve had Olympic rowers. National champions. Athletes who went on to represent this country. And yesterday, I had to apologize because my team—my athletes—couldn’t control themselves for one night.”
He paced, hands clasped behind his back.
“You made our win meaningless. You embarrassed this program. You embarrassed me. And worst of all, you injured yourselves and your opponents over words.”
I felt the guilt settle in my gut like a stone. Marcus had deserved it, because he called Remy a faggot, and had been a racist piece of shit. Someone had to stand up.
But looking at Tyler’s hand, at Evan’s face, at the empty spots where guys should be sitting—maybe there had been another way.
“Here’s what happens next,” Hale said, his voice firm. “Zero tolerance. I don’t care what’s said. I don’t care who starts it. You walk away. Every single time. Or you walk away from this team.”
He let that sink in.
“Anyone involved in another altercation—verbal or physical—is off the team immediately. Scholarships will be revoked. Season over. I don’t care if you’re a freshman or a senior or the fastest rower in program history.”
His eyes swept over all of us and landed on me.
“You represent Riverside State University every time you wear these colors. And if you can’t do that with integrity, you don’t deserve to wear them at all.”
Then silence. Deadly, suffocating silence. Hale looked down and let it burn in all of us.
Fuck.
“Get your boats. We’ve got work to do.”
We moved out to the dock in near silence. The usual pre-practice banter was gone and everyone was in their heads, processing.
I grabbed my oars, checked the rigging on one of the singles. After dominating the singles race on Saturday, I figured Hale would keep me there. You know… build on the momentum.
“Moore.”
I turned. Remy was standing a few feet away, hands in his hoodie pockets.
“Hey,” I said.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
We stepped to the side, away from the others. Remy looked nervous, which was unusual for him. He was usually one of the most laid-back guys on the team.
“I never got to say it properly. But thank you for Saturday night.”
I shrugged. “You don’t have to—”
“No, I do.” His voice was firm. “Marcus—what he said—that shit’s not new to me. I’ve heard it before. Dealt with it before. But you didn’t hesitate.”
“Anyone would’ve—”
“No.” He cut me off. “They wouldn’t have. A lot of people stand by and let it happen. They hear that shit and they look away because it’s easier.”
He held out his hand, and I clasped it.
“I’ve got your back too. Whatever you need. I mean that,” Remy said.
Something in my chest loosened. Yeah, the fight had consequences. Yeah, people got hurt. But some things were worth fighting for.
“Thanks, man,” I said.
We held the handshake for an extra second, then he nodded and walked back toward the others.
I stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of it. Hale was right—I’d fucked up. But I’d also done the right thing.
I just had to figure out how to do both.
Coach Hale came out onto the dock with his clipboard and a megaphone.
“Listen up,” he called. “Boat assignments.”
Here we go. I was expecting to hear my name called for a single.
“Before we get started,” Hale continued, “quick reminder—we’ve got the Head of the Charles in eight weeks. That’s our target. Everything we do between now and then is building toward that race.”
A ripple went through the team. The Head of the Charles was the biggest head race in the country.
“Which means,” Hale said, “I’m running seat racing for the next week. Testing different combinations, seeing who works well together, who’s got the chemistry. Lineups aren’t set. Nothing’s permanent yet. Today’s about gathering data.”
He tapped his clipboard. “So whatever boat I put you in—single, double, four, eight—I want full effort. Show me what you’ve got. Questions?”
No one said anything.
“Good. Tyler—you’re on erg duty until that hand heals.”
Tyler nodded, resigned.
“Evan and Jackson—pair.”
They moved to grab their boat.
“Thompson and Moore—double.”
My stomach dropped.
What?
Thompson—a quiet senior I barely knew—looked over at me and nodded. I stared at Coach Hale.
“Coach,” I said, raising my hand slightly. “I thought I’d be staying in the single?”
Hale didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “Boat assignments aren’t a democracy, Moore.”
“But I won the singles race on Saturday. I thought—“
“We’ll talk after practice.” His voice was firm. “Get in your boat.”
My jaw tightened, I wanted to argue, to protest, to demand an explanation, but the look on Hale’s face told me that would be a bad idea. I grabbed my oars and walked toward where Thompson was already getting the double out of the slings.
What the hell is happening?
Thompson was steady. Methodical. The kind of rower who did everything by the book—perfect technique, perfect ratio, no wasted energy.
Which meant rowing with him was frustrating as hell.
I was used to the single. Used to controlling everything—the speed, the rhythm, the power. I could feel the boat respond to every adjustment I made, could push harder whenever I wanted.
In a double, I had to match Thompson. Had to sync with his rhythm instead of setting my own. And Thompson’s rhythm was slower, more controlled than mine.
***
The morning air was cold enough to see our breath. Mist rose off the river and the water was dark and still. Thompson and I carried the double down to the dock—the hull sleek and narrow between us, lighter than a single but twice as unforgiving if we couldn’t sync.
Thompson looked like he’d just stepped out of a rowing manual. Light brown hair cut neat and short, clean-shaven, RSU gear that actually fit properly instead of the worn-out shit most of us wore.