Chapter 5 Alex
Saturday. End of week one.
We were in Hale's office at the Riverside boathouse was barely an office, it was more like a storage closet someone had shoved a desk into. The walls were covered with race results, training schedules, and motivational quotes written in Sharpie on poster board.
Eldridge looked out of place in it. His polo pressed, his watch catching the fluorescent light, sitting in a folding chair like a man who'd been asked to dine at a food truck. Hale sat behind his desk with his coffee mug and the expression of someone who didn't care whether anyone was comfortable.
Liam and I sat across from them. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Close enough that I could smell the sweat on his skin from this morning's row.
I kept my hands in my lap. Still.
"Week one's done, so let's talk about where you are," Hale said.
He pulled a sheet from the stack on his desk. Numbers. Splits. Times from every session this week, logged in Hale's cramped handwriting.
"Monday's 5K simulation: seventeen forty-two.
Wednesday you brought that down to seventeen thirty-one.
This morning's race-pace pieces were the cleanest I've seen from any double in this program in five years.
" He looked up. "You're fast. You know that.
But more importantly, you're consistent.
And consistency is what wins at the Charles. "
Eldridge leaned forward. "The Charles isn't a sprint.
It's three miles of sustained effort with turns, bridge clearances, and traffic from sixty other boats in your event.
The crews that win aren't always the fastest on flat water—they're the ones who hold form under pressure.
" He looked between us. "You two hold form. "
I nodded trying not to smile.
"We've been contacted," Hale said.
Liam shifted beside me.
"A major scout from the U23 national development staff. They saw the invitational footage. They want to see you at the Charles in person."
The room went quiet.
U23. The Olympic pipeline. And they wanted to see us. This was everything Liam wanted and I was pretty sure it was what I wanted too. But I was more excited for Liam. I could feel him next to me.
"This is the kind of visibility that can change trajectories," Eldridge said. He was looking at me when he said it, and I could hear my father's voice underneath his—the Harrington name means something at the Charles.
"Don't waste it," Hale said.
"We won't," Liam said. His voice was steady but his knee was bouncing. I could feel the vibration through the floor.
"Week two starts Monday," Hale said. "I want to increase the race-pace work. Longer pieces. Full course simulations with turn practice." He glanced at Eldridge. "We'll discuss the specifics."
"Technical refinement should be the priority Their raw speed is there. What they need is—"
"What they need is to race," Hale said. "They can refine technique in the off-season. Right now, we need them ready for three miles of chaos."
Eldridge's eyes went flat. He didn't argue—not here, not in front of us. But the disagreement was visible. Two coaching philosophies. Two programs. Two sides of the river, even if we were in the same room.
"That's all. Get some rest this weekend. Monday we go harder," Hale said.
We stood. Shook hands. Walked out of the office and down the narrow stairs to the main bay.
The boathouse was empty. Friday morning—the teams had finished practice an hour ago.
The combined session had ended, boats racked, ergs wiped down.
Everyone had filtered out while we were in the meeting.
The bay was quiet. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the sound of the river through the walls.
We stood there. Side by side. Alone.
"U23 scouts," Liam said.
"Yeah."
"They want to see us."
"Yeah."
He turned to me. The grin he'd been holding back in the meeting broke across his face—wide, real, the one I only saw when nobody else was around.
"Alex. U23 scouts."
"I heard. I was sitting right there."
"This is insane. This is actually insane."
"It's good."
"It's more than good. It's—" He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair. That gesture. The one that pulled his shirt up just enough to show a strip of stomach above his waistband. "Fuck. I need to shower. I've been in these clothes since five AM and I smell horrible."
The thought that was supposed to stay in my head in public slipped out.
"I don't mind it," I said.
"Shut up." But he was smiling.
We walked toward the locker room. The door was propped open. The tile floor was still wet from the morning's traffic but the room itself was empty. Lockers closed. Benches bare.
Nobody here.
We grabbed our stuff from our lockers. The routine. Normal.
Except nothing was normal because we were alone and we'd been alone maybe three times in the last five days and every single time we'd had to cut it short because of footsteps or voices.
Liam pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it on the bench. Then his t-shirt. One motion. Casual. Like he wasn't standing three feet from me peeling off layers of clothing in an empty room.
I busied myself with my locker. Combination lock. Towel. Soap. Very focused on the soap.
But my peripheral vision was a traitor. Liam's bare shoulders. The muscles across his back shifting as he reached down to untie his shoes. The bruise on his hip from a rough turn earlier in the week.
He kicked off his shoes. Hooked his thumbs into his waistband—shorts and boxers together—and pushed them down.
I looked away. Stared into my locker like there was something fascinating inside it.
Don't look. Don't look. Don't—
I looked.
Just a glance. A fraction of a second. But it was enough—Liam naked, stepping out of his shorts, his body in profile.
The line from his shoulders to his waist to his thighs.
Everything tight and lean and still flushed from the morning's row.
He reached for his towel and I watched the muscles in his arm flex and my mouth went dry.
Fuck.
I turned back to my locker. Pulled my own shirt off. Then my shorts. Tried to move quickly, mechanically—the way you undress in a locker room when other guys are around.
Except I could feel him watching me. The same way I'd been watching him. That prickling awareness on my skin that meant his eyes were on my body.
I didn't turn around to confirm it. Didn't need to. The air between us had changed—charged, the way it did every time we were alone and pretending we weren't aware of every inch of each other.
I wrapped my towel around my waist. Grabbed the soap.
When I turned around, Liam was already walking toward the showers. Towel slung low on his hips. He glanced back over his shoulder.
"You coming?"
And he winked.
He actually winked.
My face went hot. "Yeah. Right behind you."
"I know you are." He turned back around and kept walking.
I stood there for a second. Heart hammering. Then followed him because that's what I always did with Liam.
The showers were an open room. Just shower heads along the tile wall, a drain in the center of the floor. I took the spot nearest the corner. Liam took the one beside me.
We hung our towels on the hooks outside the entrance. Both of us naked. Both of us not acknowledging it.
I turned on the water. Hot. Let it hit my shoulders, my neck, the knots that five days of rowing had built between my shoulder blades. Closed my eyes.
Beside me, Liam's shower started. The sound of water hitting tile. His exhale—slow, relieved, the sound of someone letting the week drain off them.
I didn't look. Kept my eyes closed. Breathed.
But I could hear everything. The water running over his body. The way he shifted his weight. The small sound he made when the hot water hit a sore muscle—not quite a groan, just a release of tension that my brain immediately categorized as something else entirely.
I was getting hard. Slowly. Inevitably. My cock thickening against my thigh, responding to the proximity and the sounds and the knowledge that Liam was naked and wet three feet to my left and there was nobody in this building to stop whatever happened next.
I pressed my forehead against the tile. Cold against hot.
Think about something else. Splits. Technique. The coaching conflict.
Seventeen thirty-one. Turn practice. Bridge clearances.
It wasn't working.
"Stop thinking so loud," Liam said.
I opened my eyes. He was facing the water, head tipped back, not looking at me. Water running down his shoulders, his back, the muscles along his spine.
"I'm not thinking."
"You're always thinking." He turned his head. Eyes finding mine through the steam. "You've been thinking all week. I can hear it from the stroke seat."
"I'm just worried if someone is around they might think…"
"Everyone's gone."
"Liam."
"Alex." He turned to face me fully. The water hit his chest and ran down his stomach and I tried very hard not to look at the rest of him and failed completely.
He was hard. Not hiding it. Not covering himself. Just standing there, water running over his body, watching me with that expression from last night's texts—the one that said I know what I want and I'm done pretending I don't.
"We said we'd be careful," I said.
"I've been careful all week." He took a step toward me. "Five days of careful. Five days of looking at you across that boathouse and not being able to touch you."
"Liam—"
"Five days of sitting three feet away from you in the locker room and pretending I don't want to—" He stopped, thoughts running through his mind. "I'm done being careful."
"That's not—"
He kissed me.
No warning. Just his hand on the back of my neck and his mouth on mine and the shock of his body—wet, hot, hard—pressing against me. The water between us. He pushed my against the tile wall. It was cold against my back while his body was burning hot against my front.
I should have stopped it. Should have put my hands on his chest and pushed and said not here, not now, not where anyone could walk in.
But his tongue was in my mouth and his hand was on my hip and his cock was pressed against my thigh and my body had already made its decision. Same way it had in the closet. Same way it had in his dorm. My body chose him every time, and my brain was always three steps behind.
I kissed him back. Hard. My hands finding his neck, pulling him closer.
"That's what I thought," he murmured against my lips.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I bit his lower lip. He groaned—low, the sound vibrating through both of us.
"Quiet," I whispered. "Walls echo."
"Then we better be quick."
His mouth moved to my neck. The spot below my ear that he'd found a week ago and never forgotten. His teeth scraped and my hips jerked forward involuntarily, my cock pressing against his.
"Fuck," I breathed.
"There he is." I could feel him smiling against my skin. "Knew you were in there somewhere."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." His hand slid down my chest. My stomach. Lower. His fingers trailing through the hair below my navel and then wrapping around me—firm, sure, his grip tightening in a way that made my vision blur.
"Liam—"
"I thought about this all night," he said against my ear. His hand stroking me slow. "After you cut me off. Lay in bed thinking about exactly this."
"You're—that's—"
I could barely answer. Couldn't think. His hand was on me and his mouth was on my neck and the water was running over both of us and every nerve in my body was firing.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered.
"You. Just — you."
He kissed me again. Deep. Then pulled back. His eyes on mine.
"Get on your knees," he said. Not a question.
Something detonated in my stomach. I dropped.
The tile was hard and wet. I didn't care. Liam was above me, water streaming over his shoulders, looking down at me. His cock was right there—thick, hard, a bead of pre-cum mixing with the water at his tip.
I wrapped both my hands around him. Stroked once, licked the pre-cum from his tip, and watched his face change—eyes going unfocused, mouth falling open.
"Alex—"
I took him in my mouth.
The taste of him flooded my senses—salt and skin and the clean heat of the water. His hands found my hair. Gripped. His hips rocked forward.
"Fuck—just like that—"
I took him deeper. Found the rhythm—the same instinct that made us sync on the water, translating into this. His thighs trembled against my hands. His breathing went ragged above me.
"Don't stop—please—"
I pulled back. Ran my tongue along the underside, slow. Then lower—tracing his balls with my tongue while my hand kept working his shaft.
"Oh god—Alex—I can't—"
I took him again. Deeper. Felt the back of my throat and didn't stop. His hand fisted in my hair and his hips jerked—less controlled now, the discipline fracturing, and I wanted that. Wanted to be the thing that broke his composure.
I worked him until his hands were shaking and his breathing uneven. Then I stood. Kissed him—deep, letting him taste himself on my tongue. His hands gripped my waist hard enough to bruise.
"God," he breathed against my mouth.
"I know."
"I need—" His hands tightened. "Turn around."
And there it was. The thing I'd been circling without knowing. The want I didn't have language for until he said it—and the moment he did, my body understood before my brain could catch up.
I wanted him inside me.
The realization hit like a wave—not gradual, not theoretical. Visceral. Physical.
A want so deep it bypassed everything I thought I knew about myself and what I liked and what I was ready for. I'd never thought about it before. Not with anyone. Not even in the fantasies I'd let myself have.
But standing here with Liam's hands on me and his breath against my neck and his body pressed against mine—I wanted it. I wanted him. As close as two people could be.
I turned around.
My palms found the tile wall. The water hit my shoulders, ran down my back. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Liam stepped closer. His chest pressed against my shoulder blades. His mouth found the back of my neck.
His hips shifted forward. His cock—hard, slick from the water—pressed against me. Against my ass. The pressure of him right there.
"Fuck," I said. The word came out broken.
"Like that?" he whispered.
"Yes."
His hand slid around my waist. Down. Wrapped around me and started stroking—slow, deliberate—in rhythm with his hips grinding against me with his dick against my hole.
"You feel so fucking good," he breathed against my neck.
His body pinned mine against the wall. His hand on my cock. His dick pressed against my ass, rocking, the friction of skin on skin sending electricity through every nerve I had.
I pressed back into him. Wanting more. Wanting closer. Wanting—