Chapter 24 Liam
The restaurant was called Trattoria del Corso.
Dark wood paneling, white tablecloths, candles in heavy glass holders that threw soft light across the ceiling. The kind of place that assumed everyone at the table had a credit card with no limit.
The team filled a long table in the back—both programs, thirty bodies crammed into a space built for twenty-five.
Tyler at one end, already loud. Jace and Derek at the other, anchoring things the way captains did.
Remy between Ethan and Collins, his small frame nearly invisible between their shoulders.
Marcus across from Mason, scrolling his phone between courses.
I sat down. Alex sat beside me. Same as the bus. The pattern we'd been building all day—proximity that wasn't forced, proximity that was chosen.
The menu was leather-bound. Heavy.
I opened it and the numbers hit me like a wall.
Chicken parm—$28. Salmon — $32. The pasta dishes started at $24 and climbed. Even the salads were $16. I scanned for the cheapest thing. Side of bread. Side of soup. Maybe if I ordered a water and a side I could—
"We'll both have the rigatoni," Alex said. Smooth. Casual. The waiter had appeared and Alex was already ordering, his voice carrying that effortless authority he used with service staff—polite without being warm, the Harrington autopilot. "And two waters. Thanks."
The waiter disappeared. I looked at Alex.
He wasn't looking at me. He was studying the wine list like it contained information vital to national security. Giving me the space to decide how to feel about what he'd just done.
The instinct was there—the hot, tight thing behind my ribs that flared every time someone with money tried to smooth over the gap. The reflex that said I can order for myself, I don't need your charity, I'm not your project.
But that wasn't what this was.
This was Alex knowing what the menu cost. Knowing what I had.
Knowing that offering would be worse than the hunger and that letting me sit there calculating would be its own kind of cruelty.
So he'd just—handled it. The way you'd hold a door for someone whose hands were full.
Not because they couldn't open it. Because you were already there.
"Thanks," I said.
"Of course." He nodded, looking at the wine list he couldn't even order from. Like he hadn't just done the most intimate thing anyone had done for me all week.
Tyler stood up at the far end of the table. Glass raised. Water, not wine.
"Alright, listen up. I have a toast."
"Oh God," Jace muttered.
"To the first Riverside-Kingswell joint program team to race the Head of the Charles.
To Coach Hale for building something out of nothing.
To Coach Eldridge for—I don't know—having nice facilities.
" Laughter. Eldridge's eyebrow twitched.
"And to the two idiots who we all know are the real reason we're here.
" Tyler pointed his glass at me and Alex. "Don't embarrass us."
"We won't," Alex said.
"And we won't try that hard," I said.
More laughter. Tyler sat down looking satisfied. Jace shook his head but he was smiling. Derek raised his glass. Remy raised his. Ethan turned and smiled at me and Alex.
The food came. The rigatoni was good—better than good.
The kind of food that made the Riverside dining hall taste like cardboard by comparison.
I ate and didn't think about the price because Alex had already taken that away from me.
I thought briefly about the Stats problem set due Monday and then didn't think about it again.
Beside me, his knee found mine under the table. The same steady pressure I gave him on the bus. The contact that meant I'm here without a word.
Through the restaurant window, I could see the hotel lobby across the street. And in the lobby, visible through the glass doors—a man in a grey suit, standing with two other men in suits, holding a glass of something amber.
Thomas Harrington.
I recognized the posture before the face. The way he stood — shoulders back, chin level, the stance of a man who owned every room he entered. Even from across a street and through two panes of glass, his presence had gravity.
Alex saw him too. I felt it—the slight stiffening beside me. The knee pulling back a fraction before returning.
"He's here," Alex said. Barely audible under the table noise.
"I see him."
"Having dinner with donors. Or alumni board. Or both."
"Let him watch."
Alex looked at me. Something in his eyes—gratitude and fear and defiance, all braided together. "Yeah. Let him watch."
***
The room assignments were posted at the front desk. Two to a room. I scanned the list.
Room 412: Ortega, R. / Moore, L.
Remy. Fine. Remy was quiet. Remy would review footage on his laptop until midnight and then probably sleep like the dead.
I grabbed my key card and took the elevator to the fourth floor. Room 412. Swiped the card. Pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
Two queen beds. A desk. A window with a view of the city—glass and steel and the distant glow of the Charles River somewhere beyond the buildings. Standard hotel. Clean. Anonymous.
But Remy's bag wasn't there.
My phone buzzed.
Remy
Swapped with Harrington. Ethan's idea. Something about needing quiet for footage review. Room 412 is yours and Alex's. Don't make it weird.
I stared at the text. Read it again.
My whole chest lit on fire.
I was going to spend the night with Alex. In a hotel room. A real hotel room—not a dorm, not a boathouse shower—no. An actual room with a door that locked and a bed that was worth sleeping in.
I stood up. Sat back down. Stood up again.
Get it together, Moore.
I looked around the room. The two queen beds with white sheets that were actually soft.
The desk by the window. The lamp that dimmed.
The bathroom with a door that closed and a shower that was bigger than my entire bathroom at home.
The little coffee maker with the pods. The view—actual city lights, actual skyline, not a parking lot or a brick wall.
The first hotel room of my life. And I was spending it with him.
Then it hit me. Slow at first, then all at once—the kind of realization that starts in your stomach and spreads everywhere.
We could have sex. Here. Tonight. Not rushed, not standing up, not half-dressed with one ear listening for footsteps. In a bed. With time. With privacy. With a locked door and hours ahead of us and nobody who could walk in.
The heat that flooded through me was immediate and total. My face. My chest. My dick. I pressed my palms against the bedspread and breathed.
Calm down. He's not even here yet.
But my brain was already there—Alex on these sheets, Alex underneath me, Alex making the sounds he made when we were alone and didn't have to be quiet.
The door beeped. The handle turned.
Alex stepped in. Key card in his hand. Bag over his shoulder. He stopped when he saw me—sitting on the edge of the bed, face probably redder than it had any right to be, looking at him like he'd walked into a room I'd already undressed him in.
"Guess it's just us tonight," he said. Casual. But the corner of his mouth was pulling.
"Yeah. Remy texted me."
"I had a quick conversation with Ethan." He set his bag on the other bed. Unzipped it. Not looking at me. "He winked and said have fun."
The room went quiet. Just us. The hum of the air conditioning. The muffled sound of the city through the window. Somewhere down the hall, Tyler's voice—loud even through walls.
Alex stood by the desk. I sat on the bed. Ten feet between us. The same distance we maintained in every boathouse and locker room and dining hall—except tonight there was no reason for it. No audience. No performance. No one watching.
"Alex."
He turned.
"Get over here."
Something loosened in his face. The composure cracking into something realer. He crossed the room and stood in front of me. I grabbed him by the hips, we were nose to nose.
"This is my first time in a hotel," I said.
"What?"
"This is my first time in a hotel. Ever."
His expression shifted. Not pity—something softer. "Liam—"
"And I'm spending it with you." I reached for his hand. Pulled him closer. "In a room with a lock on the door and a pretty comfortable bed."
"That's a low bar."
"It's the highest bar of my life." I looked up at him. "And I don't want to waste a single second of it."
I leaned in and kissed him, he kissed back, then pulled away.
"Alright, Alright. Just let me unpack."
"Fine." I sat back on the bed.
Alex set his bag on the far bed. Unzipped it. Started pulling out his pre-race routine—the foam roller, the stretching bands, some massage gadget The rituals he performed every morning before a big race.
I watched him from the other bed. Shoes off. Back against the headboard.
He was beautiful when he thought nobody was looking. Not the Harrington beautiful—the practiced jaw and the perfect hair and the posture that belonged in a portrait. The other kind. The kind that showed up when the mask was off and his guard was down.
"Stop staring," he said without looking up.
"I'm not staring."
"You're staring. I can feel it."
"Maybe I'm just appreciating the view."
He looked up. His eyes finding mine across the gap between the beds.
"You're nervous," he said.
"About what?"
"Tomorrow."
"Nah." A beat. "Yeah. A little."
"Me too."
He finished stuffing his cloths into the dresser, then stretched—arms overhead, the hem of his shirt riding up and showing a strip of stomach. The cut of his hip above the waistband of his sweats. The trail of blond hair disappearing below.
"You look so good right now," I said.
"Oh yeah?"
He moved to the edge of the bed. Facing me. Three feet between us. The hotel room air charged with the specific electricity that happened when we were alone and nobody was coming through the door.