Chapter 2 Alex
I was in the shared dormitory bathroom on my floor—marble-looking tile, polished chrome fixtures, and wide mirrors framed in dark wood. I stepped into the shower stall, spun the knob, and the water poured out cold.
Without hesitation, I stepped in, hoping the shock would clear my head. The chill raced down my spine, my lungs heaved, and my body shook. It didn’t help. The only thing I could see was the look on Liam’s face after I beat him.
Exhausted. Embarrassed. Angry.
I hated it. I never wanted him to feel any of that.
I braced one hand on the wall, the other running through my wet hair as the water hit the back of my neck. My chest was still tight. It had been over a year since Brackett Lake—twelve months of pretending it meant nothing, that he meant nothing.
And then he showed up on the water this morning like the universe had been waiting to ambush me.
Not only that—what we did could ruin our futures.
We were both under a microscope, not just by our coaches, our teams, and my father, but national scouts.
Off-book races weren’t tolerated. We were professionals, not children.
If anyone saw us…
I shut my eyes to wipe the thought from my mind.
Now I was seeing him. His dark curls pushed back with sweat, those green eyes locked on mine, his whole body coiled like he wanted to win or die trying. That rough, unpolished strength.
Heat rushed through me, mixing with the warming water.
God.
He looked incredible.
And the way he rowed. The power in his legs, the flex of muscle along his torso, the wild drive of every stroke.
It shouldn’t have affected me the way it did.
But all it did was take me straight back to that night—the night he grabbed my shirt and pulled me in, his breath against my mouth, then his lips against mine.
I hadn’t let myself remember that in months, but today I did, and it still turned me on.
My hand drifted down. I was already hard. A hot need boiling in me. It happened anytime I let myself think about him. I didn’t even have to picture him naked.
It was just... Liam.
His voice from that night, low against my ear. His lips. The heat of his skin. The way I couldn’t stop touching him. He was everything I wanted and would never be able to have. Not because he was my rival but because there was no way, in my family, that I could be out.
I’d be a stain on my father’s flawless life.
So instead of living my truth, I had this. I wrapped my fingers around myself and let out a breath.
I let my mind go as I began to stroke. Images flashed through my mind of our summer on the lake. Working together at the dock, hot and sweating. Liam wearing his white tee and red shorts that teased me every day. The night we swam and wrestled in the water.
The heat of his body when we first kissed.
I stroked harder, the water streaming down my back, steam filling the small room. I imagined being close to him, imagined the way he’d taste if I’d had the guts to keep going that night. My forehead pressed to the tile.
Fuck, I want him so bad.
“Liam...” It slipped out before I could stop it. The name echoed off the tiles.
Had anyone heard it?
My body tightened all at once, heat curling low and sharp. I bit back a moan but it still escaped, and then I was coming hard, pulse crashing through me as everything inside me shook.
It felt so good.
I stayed there, hunched over the wall, breathing hard as the water washed everything away.
God. I was pathetic. Still getting off to a guy I kissed once over a year ago.
I shut off the water and stepped out of the stall, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist. My reflection in the mirror stared back—hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes too bright.
All I could picture was Liam standing behind me, towel slung low on his hips, both of us still dripping from the water.
“Get it together,” I said to myself.
I stepped into the hallway, the cool air hitting my skin as I headed down the hall to my dorm.
My room was quiet when I stepped inside—full-size bed, built-in bookshelves, a mahogany desk, crown molding like a boutique hotel, and a wall of windows.
It was typical, comfortable in a way that made my shoulders drop. I liked the space, the quiet, the luxury. I hadn’t earned it, I knew that. The only thing I’d earned was my rowing. The rest had been given to me with suffocating expectations.
I stepped into dark slacks, a pressed white button-down, and a navy blazer. I grabbed my leather messenger bag, and as soon as I stepped into the hallway, I heard a familiar voice.
“Alex!”
Marcus appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dark hair combed back and gelled, wearing a dark blue quarter-zip with the Kingswell crest on the chest and khaki pants.
“There you are,” he said, flashing a grin.
“Hey, Marcus,” I replied.
Marcus squinted at me like he was obligated to inspect my face. “Bro, you look like you ran from the cops.”
“I trained this morning,” I said.
He laughed and slung an arm over my shoulder. “Damn. Already training for those scouts this year?”
“I never stopped training, Marcus. Two high-performance camps this summer.”
“You’re fucking sick, man. Let’s go eat.”
We stepped outside into the cool, bright morning. Students crossed the quad looking like future senators and CEOs, each of them wearing some signal of Kingswell—embroidered crests, polished jackets, unearned confidence stitched into everything they owned.
“Sooooo...” Marcus said. “Heard some interesting chatter.”
My stomach tightened. “About what?”
“Just a tiny, tiny rumor that someone was seen racing some state-school dude at sunrise like it was the goddamn Olympics.”
I stopped walking for half a second.
Marcus didn’t notice. “Unsanctioned sprint? No coaches? At dawn? Bro, that’s suicide. People get benched for good for shit like that.”
I forced myself to keep moving. “People shouldn’t believe everything they hear.”
“Please.” Marcus snorted. “The upperclassmen were already talking about it in the group chat. Something like, ‘an idiot opened the year by trying to kill a guy in a single.’”
“I didn’t try to kill anyone,” I said, betraying myself.
“So it was you.” His grin widened. “I knew it. Wait—did you at least win?”
I paused.
Marcus prodded further. “Tell me you didn’t lose to a Riverside kid.”
I said nothing.
He dragged both hands down his face. “You lost...”
“I smoked him,” I said with a smirk.
“Of—fucking—course you did!” Marcus barked out a laugh, vibrating. “God, Harrington, you couldn’t let a Riverside kid beat you even in a dream. Who was it?”
I shrugged, ignoring his question. “Didn’t plan on it.”
Marcus stopped laughing. “Wait—back up. So you’re telling me you just happened to line up with some random dude at dawn?”
I didn’t answer. He stared at me like I’d given him a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
“What, did he just appear out of the mist like your personal rowing demon?”
Marcus didn’t understand just how accurate he was. I stared straight ahead, pulse thudding. “Yes. Exactly that. My personal rowing demon.”
“I guess it was Moore then,” he said.
Another comment I ignored.
We opened the dining hall’s big oak doors and walked into a roar of warmth and noise.
Kingswell’s dining hall felt more like a historic club than a place to grab breakfast. High ceilings arched above us, crisscrossed with dark wooden beams polished to a shine.
Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, scattering across gold-trimmed molding and rows of long, immaculate tables.
The smell hit—espresso, baked bread, warm butter, maple syrup—a rich, comforting fog.
Marcus inhaled. “Ah, privilege. Smells like carbs.”
We grabbed some food then threaded our way through the tables.
Ethan sat at our usual table by the windows, legs crossed at the ankle. A pale grey sweater hugged his frame and his dark blond hair fell in a swoop over his forehead.
“Morning, sinners,” he said.
Marcus collapsed into the seat across from him. “Guess who decided to reenact The Fast and the Furious: Rowing Edition before breakfast.”
Ethan blinked once. “I’m sorry—what?”
Marcus pointed at me. “Alex had a sunrise race with his personal demon.”
Ethan turned his eyes to me. “What are you saying, Marcus? Is this a metaphor?”
“It’s not,” Marcus said.
I gave him a glare sharp enough to peel paint. “Drop it.”
It was just Ethan but the less people knew… the better.
Ethan lifted his hands in surrender. “Oh, I’m not judging. Do I need to schedule a ‘Don’t Get Expelled’ PSA?”
Marcus laughed.
I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck. “It wasn’t a big deal. It was nothing.”
Ethan hummed, sipping his coffee. “Well, try not to start any turf wars until after the fundraising mixer. The committee is already panicking about having two rival crews in one room.”
Marcus perked up. “Oh, right. The mixer thing. Free food, bad speeches, awkward small talk.”
“Don’t forget the string lights,” Ethan said. “They bought, like, four thousand of them. Someone on student life thinks they’re magical.”
“When is that?” I asked.
“A few weeks,” Ethan said.
Marcus elbowed me. “Riverside’s gonna be there. You’ll get a little time with your personal demon.” Then he made kissing noises.
“Shut up,” I said.
Marcus didn’t know about what happened between me and Liam. All he knew was that I crashed the boat and my father made me work at the marina the rest of the summer—with Liam.
My father was trying to teach me a lesson, but it had an unintended effect. It was the only reason I fell for Liam. It was the only reason we kissed. If none of it ever happened, we would just be regular rivals. Not whatever the fuck this was.
“You good?” Ethan asked.
I had been stabbing my eggs harder than necessary.
“Fine,” I said.
Ethan didn’t push. He just watched me with that gentle, knowing calm of his. He knew more than he ever let on, but I could see it in his eyes.
Breakfast didn’t last long after that.
Ethan floated back to talking about camera lenses and event lighting; Marcus debated the ranking of dining hall pastries like it was a sport; I nodded along, trying not to think of getting kicked off the team.
Marcus stretched with a groan. “Alright, kids. Time to go listen to Eldridge’s annual speech on honor and duty.”
Kingswell’s boathouse sat at the edge of campus, just above the river. As we approached, the building looked like a temple—arched beams, tall windows, polished wood glowing in the light. A massive blue and gold Kingswell Stallion hung above the double doors.
Inside, the air smelled like varnish, river water, and shell wax.
Banners hung from the rafters: NATIONAL CHAMPIONS, LEAGUE TITLES, INVICTUS REGATTA 1987.
Every one of them felt like it was staring me down.
Especially the ones with my father’s name—Henley Royal Regatta, 1985, Prince Albert Challenge Cup.
The quad that made him a legend. The race he expected me to replicate.
Every conversation we had seemed to circle back to that single moment of his glory, like my entire rowing career was just a countdown to matching it.
A cluster of rowers had already gathered. Upperclassmen talked in low voices like they ran the place, freshmen tried to look confident, and everyone braced for whatever pressure Coach was about to put on them.
Coach Eldridge stood in front of the whiteboard, hands clasped behind his back. Early fifties, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, expression unreadable. His posture was as rigid as the boathouse beams.
He didn’t need to call for quiet. The room just fell silent around him.
“Gentlemen,” he said, voice smooth and precise, “welcome back.”
We took our seats on the wooden benches. Marcus dropped in beside me. Ethan leaned against the wall beside the camera cart, ready to film any announcements that would later be sliced into the team’s social media highlight reel.
“Kingswell rowing continues its tradition this year: precision, discipline, and consistency. You are expected to uphold the standard set before you.”
He paced, hands clasped behind his back, voice steady like he’d been giving this same speech since before I was born.
“Our program succeeds because our athletes make responsible choices, on and off the water. You respect the sport, respect each other, and respect the expectations of this institution. That is how we maintain our edge.”
I kept my face neutral, but something in my chest pinched.
Responsible choices. Yeah…
Not exactly the phrase you wanted to hear after sprinting a rival at dawn with no coach around.
“You carry the name of Kingswell with you. Our alumni, our donors, our history—they look to you to continue a tradition of excellence. We trust each of you to uphold that standard.”
My stomach tightened. Words I’d heard my whole life. Usually from my father. Usually with an emphasis that meant: don’t screw up and don’t embarrass me.
I hadn’t embarrassed anyone... yet. I wasn’t even sure how anyone found out about the race. But it could all be chalked up as rumor... hopefully. Still, the thought of my father hearing even a hint of it made my shoulders stiffen.
Eldridge moved down the bench, gaze sweeping over us. “Preseason assessments will begin tomorrow with a 2k erg. Then we will begin technical assessments.”
The first two weeks always felt like being dissected—ergs, drills, small-boat trials—every second watched, every flaw noted, and all of it feeding into whether I stood a chance at being placed in a four this year.
Which I needed to be in to race at Henley—my father wouldn't have it any other way.
Single and double sculling was kind of looked down upon by the elite. It was all about the fours and eights.
But I kind of liked a double. I hated how my mind flicked back to Brackett Lake—to that one clean run with Liam, enough that my body remembered exactly how it felt to move with him.
“One thing will be different this year,” Eldridge continued.
A few heads lifted.
“I’ve spoken with Coach Hale at Riverside.”
The air sharpened and Marcus looked sideways at me.
“We have agreed to open the year with a scrimmage this weekend. Consider it an opportunity to evaluate your readiness.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Even the upperclassmen didn’t bother to hide their surprise. Eldridge lifted a hand. Silence returned.
“Riverside is not to be underestimated. They have made substantial gains over the last year. You will prepare accordingly.”
Marcus muttered under his breath, just loud enough for me: “Your second race of the year.”
I slammed my knee into his without looking at him. Eldridge’s gaze flicked to me for a fraction of a second—sharp as a blade. I sat straighter.
Steadier.
Pretending my heart wasn’t already racing.
The season had barely begun and I was already in trouble.