Chapter 3 Alex
Four hours of sleep. Third day in a row.
The texting was becoming a problem. Not the content—the content was the best part of my day. The problem was that Liam and I had no concept of time after midnight. Every night the same pattern: I should sleep. So sleep. You first. And then neither of us did.
But on the water, none of it mattered. Four hours or eight—my body knew what to do when the blade hit the surface. Catch, drive, finish, recovery. The rhythm erasing everything except the boat and the person in it with me.
Wednesday morning's session was our best yet.
Hale had us running a full 5K simulation, it was race distance, race pace, the whole course mapped onto the river with bridge markers and turn points flagged by buoys he'd set before dawn. Three miles of sustained effort, rating at twenty-eight, no rest, no recovery, no breaks.
The way it would feel on the Charles.
By the halfway mark, the boat was singing.
By the three-thousand-meter flag, we were locked in so tight that every stroke felt like a single motion—not two people rowing, just the boat moving.
And by the time we crossed Hale's finish marker, my lungs were on fire and my legs were shaking and I couldn't feel my hands on the oar handle.
Hale pulled the launch alongside us. He was quiet for a long moment, checking his stopwatch.
"Seventeen forty-two. For a training piece in November on flat water, that's fast. That's Charles fast."
He motored away before either of us could respond.
For three seconds, neither of us moved. Just floating. The boat gliding on its own momentum. Our breathing ragged and synchronized.
Then Liam looked back at me from the stroke seat. Not the careful, guarded glance he gave me in the boathouse. A real look. Eyes wide. Mouth open. The grin building before he could stop it.
"Did he just—"
"Yeah."
"Seventeen forty-two."
"I heard."
"Alex. That's fast."
"I know."
"No—that's like—that's fucking fast." He was fully grinning now, chest still heaving, face flushed, and he looked so alive it hurt. "We just did a 5K at race pace and he said—"
"Charles fast. I was there."
"Say it again."
"No."
"Say it."
"Charles fast." And I was smiling too—couldn't help it, couldn't hold it, my face cracking open in a way that would've been dangerous if anyone was close enough to see. But Hale's launch was fifty meters ahead and the nearest boat was still working through their second half.
It was just us. On the water. The one place where we didn't have to pretend.
"We can win this thing," Liam said. Not bragging. Not performing. Just saying it out loud like he was hearing it for the first time and couldn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth. "Like… actually win."
"Don't get ahead of yourself."
"I'm not. I'm getting exactly where I should be." He held my gaze. The grin softened into something else—something underneath, warmer, steadier. "We're good together."
The words landed. Same ones I'd said in the boat weeks ago. We're good together. But this time it was Liam saying them. Liam, who never admitted anything until it was dragged out of him.
"Yeah," I said. "We are."
He turned back around. Squared his shoulders. Picked up his oar.
"Don't tell anyone I smiled," he said.
"Wouldn't dream of it. Your reputation is safe with me."
"Good." A pause. Then, quieter—barely audible over the water lapping against the hull. "That was fun."
We paddled back toward the dock. Easy strokes. Cool-down pace. The mist burning off the river as the sun climbed higher. And for those few minutes—just us and the water and the fading echo of Charles fast—the walls didn't exist.
I wanted to hold onto that feeling but I wouldn't get too.
***
I was halfway across the Kingswell quad, gym bag over my shoulder, still riding the high from the water, when I heard him behind me.
"Harrington."
Marcus.
I didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Kept walking.
He caught up anyway. Fell into step beside me with that easy stride. I hadn't spoken to him since I'd told him we were done, aside from the few times he tried to talk shit. Weeks of nothing. No texts, no dining hall nods, no pretending at practice.
And now here he was. Walking next to me like the conversation had never happened.
"Relax. I'm not here to fight," he said.
"Then what are you here for?"
"Can't a guy say congratulations?" He put his hands up. Mock surrender.
I kept walking. Didn't look at him. "Thanks."
"I mean it. Seriously." His voice was different than I expected—not the lazy cruelty, not the smirk. Something closer to genuine. "You've been killing it out there. Everyone's talking about it."
"Everyone?"
"The team. The coaches. My dad called me about it, if you can believe that." He laughed. I didn't.
We walked in silence for a few steps. The sun shining low through the trees. Students cutting between buildings.
"Look," Marcus said. "I know things got weird between us. I get why you said what you said. And I'm not going to pretend I didn't deserve some of it."
Some of it. Not all of it. Classic Marcus—the half-apology that left room for him to still be right.
"But we've known each other since we were eight, Alex. Our families go back decades. That doesn't just disappear because of one bad night."
"It wasn't one bad night. It's who you've always been."
"Fair." He nodded. Took it. That surprised me. "But people can change."
I almost laughed. Marcus Caldwell talking about change. The guy who'd called Remy a slur and didn't understand why it mattered until someone punched him.
"I'm not asking to be best friends again." He glanced at me. "I'm just saying—you're spending a lot of time with Riverside. New partner. New coach."
"So what Marcus?" I stopped and looked at him.
"Don't forget who actually knows you, man. The real you. Not the version you're performing for those guys."
The words landed harder than they should have. Because Marcus didn't know—couldn't know—that "the real you" was exactly what I was hiding. That the version of me he thought he knew was the performance, and the person I was becoming with Liam was closer to the truth than anything I'd ever shown him.
"I know who I am," I said.
"Do you?" That smile. Not cruel. Almost sad. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're turning into someone I don't recognize. And I'm not sure you recognize yourself either."
He clapped me on the shoulder. The gesture was warm and it made my skin crawl.
"Just looking out for you. That's what real friends do."
He peeled off toward the student center without waiting for a response.
I stood there on the stone path. The high from the water was gone. Marcus had a talent for that—walking into a good moment and leaving a bruise.
Don't forget who actually knows you.
Nobody knew me… that was the whole problem. Well… Liam was starting to know me.
I kept walking.
***
I was unlocking my dorm room dor when my phone buzzed.
The screen said Father.
Not Dad. I'd never called him Dad—not since I was old enough to understand that the word implied a warmth that didn't exist in our house.
I stepped inside. Dropped my bag. Answered.
"Hello."
"Alexander. I wanted to check in. How's training?" His voice was… different.
"It's going well."
"Good. That's good. I watched the invitational footage. Eldridge sent it to the alumni group."
My grip tightened on the phone.
"You and Moore—that was impressive rowing. The second half of that race, the way you closed the gap and took the lead... I've watched it three times."
I didn't say anything. Couldn't. Because my father had never—not once in twenty years—watched something I'd done three times.
"You earned that win, Alexander. I want you to know that."
The words hit me somewhere I wasn't prepared for. Not my chest, not my stomach. Deeper. The place where a kid still lived who used to stand on the dock after junior regattas, scanning the crowd for his father's face, finding it, and seeing nothing but assessment.
"Thank you," I said. My voice came out rough.
"I hear the Charles entry is official. Featured double."
"Yes. Moore and I."
"That's a significant opportunity. National stage. Scouts. The kind of visibility that can define a career." He paused. "I'll be there."
Of course he was.
"The Harrington name has history at that race. Your grandfather rowed it in '78. I rowed it in '96. But I'll tell you something—neither of us placed in our event." Another pause. "You could be the first."
Something warm spread through my chest and I hated it. Hated how good it felt. Hated that after twenty years of performing for this man, a few sentences of genuine pride could crack me open like I was twelve again.
"I'll do my best," I said.
"I know you will." He took a long pause. "You looked happy out there. In the footage."
My throat closed.
Happy. My father had noticed I looked happy. My father, who viewed emotion as weakness and passion as unprofessionalism, had watched me row and seen happiness and was telling me about it like it mattered.
Was this real? Was this a play? Was Thomas Harrington capable of saying his son looked happy and meaning it without an agenda?
I didn't know. And not knowing was worse than any threat he could have made. Because threats I could defend against. This—this warmth, this approval—I had no armor for.
"Thanks, Father," I said.
"We'll talk soon."
He hung up.
What was that?
I sat on the edge of my bed. Phone in my hand. The screen going dark.
I took a deep breath to try and cool the anxiety in my chest.
This was the thing no one understood about having a father like Thomas Harrington.
The cruelty wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was the moments when he was kind—because they made me realize how starved I was.
How badly I still wanted him to see me, even when I knew the seeing came with expectations I couldn't meet.
A knock on my door. Who now? First, Marcus, then my Father.
Please let it be Liam.
Ethan. Two coffees from the campus cart. One for him, one for me.
"You look like shit," he said, handing me mine.
"Thanks."
"Seriously. When's the last time you slept?"
"Define sleep."
He dropped into my desk chair and spun it to face me. I sat on the bed. The coffee was good—dark roast, no sugar, the way I'd been drinking it since freshman year. The fact that he remembered felt like something I shouldn't take for granted.
"My father just called," I said. Didn't plan to say it. Just came out.
Ethan's eyebrows rose. "And?"
"He congratulated me. On the invitational."
"That's... good?"
"He said I looked happy."
Ethan studied me. He understood the weight of that sentence without me having to explain it—he'd seen enough of my father's shadow to know that Thomas Harrington noticing his son's happiness was either a miracle or a weapon.
"How do you feel about it?" he asked.
"I don't know." Honest. "It felt good. Which scares me."
Ethan nodded slowly.
But before he could ask more questions, I said, "What's going on with you?"
He tiled his head, then pulled his laptop out. "Eldridge is making me do a documentary about the joint program."
"Making you?"
"For my Media Studies practicum. I pitched three other ideas to my professor and he shot all of them down.
Apparently, he and Eldridge talked and decided the joint program is 'a compelling institutional narrative.
'" He did air quotes with the kind of disgust only Ethan could make charming.
"Fifteen-minute short. Coaching philosophies, team dynamics. Due end of semester."
"You don't want to do it."
"I want to make films about things that matter to me. " He gestured with his coffee. "Not a promo reel for a rowing program funded by rich dads."
"My rich dad, specifically."
"Your rich dad, specifically." But he was almost smiling. "I've got full access. Boathouse, dock, training sessions. Film whenever I want. It's actually great access for a sophomore—I just wish it was for a project I cared about."
My stomach tightened. Full access. Camera in the boathouse. Filming training sessions.
"Ethan—"
"Relax." He held up his hand. "I know what you're thinking. And no. I'm not filming your personal life. This is about the program, not softcore porn about you and Liam."
I almost laughed but this was serious. I didn't need more pressure, between Emily and Braden—it was all too risky already.
"I'm not going to catch you doing anything," Ethan said. Gentler now. "If anything personal shows up in footage, it doesn't make the cut. You have my word."
I believed him.
"Okay," I said. "Just — be careful with the angles."
"I'm always careful with angles. I'm a filmmaker."
"You're a sophomore with a laptop and an assignment you didn't want."
"Rude." But he was smiling for real now. "Oh—other news. Speaking of being a film maker… The indie festival in Vermont is announcing selections next month."
"For the Berlin doc?"
"Yeah. Screening's in December if I get in. Little theater in Burlington." His knee was bouncing—the tell he had when he was excited and pretending not to be. "Will you come? If I get in. I don't want to watch it alone in some cold theater."
"Yeah," I said. No hesitation. "I'll come."
"Really?"
"I said I would."
He nodded. Looked down at his coffee. When he looked back up, his eyes were bright. "Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."
We talked for another hour. About his Film Theory professor who wore the same corduroy jacket every day. About a guy in his editing class who kept rendering everything in the wrong aspect ratio. About whether the practicum documentary could at least have a decent soundtrack.
When he left, I stood in the doorway and watched him walk down the hall. His laptop bag bouncing against his hip. His hand raised in a wave without looking back.
I closed the door.
Two people in my life knew the real me. Ethan, who'd named what I felt before I could. And Liam, who made me feel it.
Everyone else got the performance.
That night I lay in bed with the day stacked up inside me like sediment. Marcus's smile. My father's voice. Ethan's camera. The 5K that proved we could win. All of it pressing down, layer after layer.
Then my phone buzzed.
Liam
You up?
I typed back.
Alex
Always.
Just seeing him in my texts quieted the noise in my head.
We texted most of the night before we both passed out too late.
Worth it.