Chapter 10 Alex
It had been days since the fight.
Days since I defended my homophobic friend and hurt my only gay friend. I’d been avoiding Marcus because I was too scared to tell him the truth: that he was a dick. And Ethan... well, he didn’t want anything to do with me… and rightfully so.
On Monday morning, Coach Eldridge had gathered us all in the boathouse before we touched the water. He’d told us exactly how disappointed he was in our lack of discipline. How fighting reflected badly on the program, on Kingswell’s reputation, on our families.
But most of his anger wasn’t directed at us.
It was directed at Riverside.
“That program has always lacked discipline,” he said, his voice cold and controlled. “We don’t stoop to the level of heathens.”
He made it clear that his real frustration wasn’t about the fight itself—it was about the injuries—the fact that we had guys nursing split knuckles and bruised ribs and black eyes right before the head races.
About how it was going to affect our lineups, our boat combinations, our chances at winning.
Everything always came back to winning.
Not about what Marcus had said to Remy. Not about why we’d been defending our teammate in the first place. Just about how the fight had made us look weak, undisciplined, and worst of all—compromised.
Practice hadn’t gotten any better as the week dragged on and today it felt like rowing through concrete.
Mist hung low over the water, turning everything gray and soft-edged. The river looked like glass until our blades cut through it, leaving dark ripples that spread and disappeared.
“Switch,” Coach Eldridge called from the launch. “Harrington, take stroke seat. Morgan, move to three.”
I climbed out of the boat, legs heavy, and switched positions with Jake Morgan. Fourth lineup change in thirty minutes. Nothing was clicking.
“Set it up,” Eldridge said.
We pushed off the dock. I settled into the stroke seat—the rhythm setter, the one everyone followed—and felt immediately wrong.
“Ready all? Row,” I said.
We took the first stroke together, but I was already half a beat ahead, rushing the slide. The boat lurched and water slapped against the hull, loud in the morning quiet.
“Easy,” Derek said from bow seat. Calm. Steady. Everything I wasn’t.
I forced myself to slow down, count the rhythm in my head. One, two, three, four.
But my body wouldn’t listen.
I caught too early. The blade dove deep, pulling the boat off-set. Behind me, someone swore as their oar clipped the water at the wrong angle. The boat rocked, unbalanced, our wake spreading uneven behind us.
“Hold,” Eldridge’s voice cut across the water. Flat. Disappointed.
We stopped rowing and the boat drifted, momentum dying. Around us, the river kept moving like nothing had happened.
“Harrington, what’s going on?”
I stared at the oar handle in my hands. White knuckles. Shaking slightly.
Great question, Coach. Let me think.
Lost to Liam. Check. Lost Ethan. Check. Got my face rearranged in a fight I didn’t even want because Marcus decided being a homophobic asshole was more important than the team. Check.
And now I was sitting there, bruised and barely holding it together, while everyone waited for me to explain why the perfect golden boy had finally cracked.
“Nothing, Coach. I’ll fix it.”
“Fix it faster. You’re setting the pace for seven other guys. If you’re off, everyone’s off.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Ready all. Row.”
I tried again.
My timing was fractured, my rhythm shot. Every stroke felt like forcing puzzle pieces that didn’t fit, and the boat swayed beneath us, unbalanced, inefficient.
We rowed another thousand meters before Eldridge pulled us in.
“Line change,” he said. “Harrington, sit this one out. Shaw, take stroke.”
Humiliation burned through my chest.
I climbed out of the boat without meeting anyone’s eyes and sat on the dock while Derek took my seat. Watched them push off and the boat settle immediately into clean, synchronized rhythm.
Better without me.
***
Practice ended an hour later.
The team hauled boats back to the racks in silence. I helped lift the eight overhead and slid it into place without saying a word to anyone.
Derek caught my arm as I turned to leave.
“Hey. Walk with me.”
It wasn’t a request.
We walked away from the boathouse, along the path that followed the river south toward the old stone bridge. Neither of us spoke for a while.
Finally, Derek said, “You want to talk about what happened out there?”
“Nothing happened. I was off.”
“You’ve been off since Saturday.”
I didn’t answer.
We reached the bridge and stopped. Derek leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the water. I stood beside him, arms crossed, waiting for the lecture.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, Derek said, “You know I had a breakdown sophomore year.”
I looked at him.
He was staring at the river, expression unreadable. Calm on the surface, but something flickered beneath it.
“What?”
“Spring season. Right before IRAs.” Derek’s voice was measured, almost detached. “Lost my dad that February. Heart attack. No warning.”
My chest tightened.
“I didn’t know that.”
Derek shrugged. “Eldridge wanted me to take time off. I refused. Told him I was fine, that rowing would help me deal with it.”
He paused.
“I wasn’t fine.”
The wind picked up, rustling through the trees behind us.
“I held it together through winter training. Made it through the first few regattas. Then we got to Grand Finals at IRAs, and I just—“ He stopped. Breathed out slowly. “Couldn’t do it. Sat in the boat at the starting line and felt like I was drowning. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.”
I didn’t say anything. Just listened.
“We false-started,” Derek continued. “Twice. Because of me. Third time, I got the blade in the water, but I was so far gone I pulled us off-set within ten strokes. We finished dead last.”
He turned to look at me then.
“Eldridge benched me. Told me I needed to get my head straight before I came back.”
I tried to picture Derek like that—falling apart, losing control—and couldn’t.
“You don’t seem like someone who breaks.”
Derek smiled faintly. “Yeah, well. Neither do you.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“What changed?” I asked.
“I stopped lying to myself.” Derek’s gaze drifted back to the river. “Stopped pretending I could handle everything alone. So I asked for help and went to therapy... that changed a lot for me.”
He looked at me again, eyes sharper now.
“Asking for help was the hardest thing I ever did.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Are you saying that I need therapy?”
Derek laughed. “I mean, probably, but it’s not that. It’s just about being honest with yourself.”
Does he know I’m gay?
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, trying not to be defensive.
“I know all the legacy shit is heavy and I don’t think it fits who you really are.”
It was a relief that that was all he thought it was.
“It’s not... you’re right," I said.
“That’s all I’m saying.” Derek’s jaw tightened. “You can’t outrun what’s eating at you, Alex.”
I swallowed hard.
“What if I don’t know how?”
Derek’s expression softened. “Start small. One honest thing at a time.”
We stood there for a moment, neither of us speaking.
The clouds that had hung heavy all morning finally shifted, breaking apart. Sunlight pushed through, sudden and warm on my skin.
“Wanna head back?” Derek asked.
“Yeah. Thanks for the advice.” I meant it.
He slapped me on the back. “That’s what captains are for.”
We started walking back toward the boathouse. Derek walked beside me, steady and unhurried. Six-three, broad shoulders tapering down to a rower’s build—lean power earned through years of discipline.
The path curved along the river, gravel crunching under our feet. Neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just there, settling between us like the space between strokes in a boat.
My chest relaxed. Just a little. Just enough.
I pulled in a breath—deeper than I’d managed in days—and felt something shift. Not fixed, but it was light, like maybe if I could keep breathing then I could keep moving—keep trying.
The boathouse came into view ahead. Practice was over and the boats were racked. Tomorrow we’d be back on the water, and I’d have to figure out how to get my timing back. How to set the rhythm. I could do it.
Derek stopped at the door.
“You’re a good rower and you’re a good guy... just try and learn from my mistakes.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
Derek smiled. “You don’t have to be perfect... just honest.”
Then he walked inside, leaving me standing in the doorway.
Honest.
The word hung in the air like mist over the water. I walked down to the edge of the dock and sat, legs dangling over the water. The river moved beneath me, steady and indifferent, as sunlight caught the surface and scattered into a thousand shifting pieces of light.
Derek’s honesty had been asking for help, admitting he couldn’t handle it alone.
For me, being honest would mean... coming out.
My chest tightened at the thought of telling my father. Watching everything I’d built crumble. Losing the Harrington name, the legacy, the future that had been mapped out since before I could walk. I thought of my cousin James. I couldn’t do that.
But Derek had said start small. One honest thing at a time.
One honest thing.
Marcus’ voice echoed in my head. Faggot.
And I’d just stood there. Frozen. Silent. Like I always did. Because speaking up would’ve meant drawing attention. Would’ve meant taking a side. Would’ve meant people asking questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
But staying silent—that meant something too, didn’t it?
It meant I was okay with it and that I agreed. That Marcus could say whatever he wanted because I cared more about keeping the peace than protecting someone who deserved better. I deserved better.
My chest filled with hot anger and embarrassment.
I thought about Liam. How he’d thrown that punch without hesitation. How he’d stood up for Remy instantly, automatically, like there was no other choice.
While I’d just watched. Perfect Alex Harrington, too afraid to make waves, too controlled to let anything slip, and too worried about what people would think to actually stand for anything.
But that wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore.
I couldn’t come out, but I could stop pretending that staying silent was the same as staying safe. I could stop letting Marcus—my supposed best friend—spew hatred while I nodded along because it was easier than confrontation.
I could start being real about what I actually believed in, even if I wasn’t ready to be real about who I was.
The water kept moving, pulling everything forward whether I was ready or not.
I stood up, brushed off my shorts, and turned back toward the boathouse.
Next time I saw Marcus, I wasn’t going to smile and pretend everything was fine. I wasn’t going to let it slide.
My hands were shaking slightly as I walked back toward the boathouse, but this time it wasn’t from fear.
It was from finally deciding to do something about it.