Chapter 5 Liam
When I walked into the Riverside boathouse, I was hit with a familiar smell. I’m pretty sure it was mildew and sweat, but I liked to think it was just the smell of hard work and impending victory.
Nothing about our boathouse was pretty, but it was real.
The main gym had several rows of ergs, a meeting area with benches, and some cycles overlooking the rowing tank below.
We were one of the few programs lucky enough to have one—secured decades ago by a legendary coach who'd leveraged a championship season into enough clout with the administration to get the funding.
We hadn't come close to that kind of success since.
The tank stretched out like a narrow pool, maybe sixty feet long and eight feet wide, with a mechanical current system that simulated river conditions. Rowers could practice their technique year-round without dealing with weather, ice, or the chaos of an actual waterway.
Coaches loved it because they could stand right beside you, dissecting every stroke without chasing you in a launch. Most of us hated it for the same reason—nowhere to hide when your form went to shit.
The letters RSU stretched across the back wall in peeling white and burgundy paint. Right next to that was the River Jack, a river worker, glaring down at us—broad-shouldered, rough-edged, the kind of guy who’d climb out of the river just to tell you to row harder.
Most of the team was there, chattering away. It felt damn good to be walking in as a varsity sophomore. Last year burned—everyone calling me a novice, even though I was better than half of varsity.
Tyler was the first to spot me. He lounged across an erg with his legs splayed out.
“Moore! You look like you slept in your hoodie again.”
“I did.” I dropped my bag by the wall. “It’s called efficiency.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, grinning. “Or depression.”
“What’s there to be depressed about?”
“5 AM wake ups, preseason assessments, and this random-ass scrimmage.”
That earned a laugh from the corner, where Jace Morales—our senior captain—was taping up his hands.
Jace was the only guy on the team I looked up to.
Scholarship kid like me. Built like a middle linebacker but with a sculler’s precision.
He’d made a U23 National development boat last summer and hadn’t bragged about it once.
He nodded at me. “You ready for hell week?”
“My life is hell,” I said.
“That’s the spirit,” Jace replied, deadpan. “Suffer now, cry later.”
Tyler pointed at him. “Inspirational. Put that on a pillow.”
Before I could fire back, the office door pushed open with a soft thump. Everyone found a seat. The freshmen were at the benches, backs straight, eyes wide.
Coach Hale was in his late forties with some grey sticking through his disheveled dark brown hair. He wore dark grey athletic pants and an RSU hoodie. We all respected Hale because he was the real deal.
He was still in shape and still rowed his single scull. He won nationals multiple times and won silver in the 1996 Olympics. We were lucky to have him—the guy was a legend. He rowed more than all of us combined. So it was smart to pay attention—at least that was how I looked at it.
“Alright, guys. Eyes up for a second,” Hale said, then sipped his coffee.
I sat on the erg next to Tyler.
“I’m guessing you’ve heard about the scrimmage.” A couple groans, a couple snickers. “News travels fast when you guys live on social media. Not worth pretending it’s a secret.”
Tyler snorted, and Hale shot him a mild look—more amused than annoyed.
“This weekend’s gonna be a good check-in,” Hale went on. “Kingswell’ll roll in like they’re God’s gift, and we’ll do what we always do—show up, work hard, and make ’em sweat a little.” His tone was easy, almost casual, but the room leaned in anyway.
He took another sip of coffee. “To figure out lineups, varsity’s running a 2k today. Novice row with us but you’ll test tomorrow. All lineups will be posted in a few days.”
He smiled at the relief that swept across the freshman group.
“Nothing dramatic. Just a test to see where everyone’s at. No excuses about being rusty. You give me whatever you’ve got in the tank.”
My stomach tightened. Erg tests. Today.
This was it—day one, chance one. Hale would see my split, my stamina, my discipline. I wanted—needed—to prove I deserved to run some single races this year.
Last year, I was stuck on the first freshman eight. It was the fastest freshman boat, but I hated it because they were holding me back.
Hale paced a few steps.
“Look, I know we’re not fancy. We’re not Kingswell. Nobody here’s rowing for their daddy’s legacy.” He shrugged. “We row because we love it. Because we’re stubborn. Because it makes us better.”
His eyes drifted across the team and landed on me for a beat—it steadied something in me.
“So warm up easy,” Hale said, lifting his mug in a half-toast. “Test in twenty. And hey—don’t puke on the floor.”
The room cracked up. Even I smiled.
Jace stood and stretched his shoulders. “You ready, Moore?” he asked.
“I have to be,” I said.
Hale walked past, giving my shoulder a light tap that somehow meant everything.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just trust your work.”
And yeah. That landed exactly where it should’ve. I was going to prove it.
We lined the ergs up in three crooked rows. Flywheels hummed as the team warmed up. The front row was all heavy hitters—Jace dead center, with the rest of the seniors. Tyler and I were in the second row with some varsity juniors and sophomores.
Behind us, a cluster of freshmen whispered to each other like they were about to walk into a firing squad. I remembered this day last year—my first erg test, when I’d pushed so hard I threw up.
Coach Hale had just looked at me and said, “Good. Now you know where the line is.”
Coach Hale moved between the rows with his coffee mug. “Alright, boys,” he called, voice relaxed but carrying. “Two minutes to start. Don’t overthink it.”
My stomach churned. Stats homework, English readings, Anatomy and Physiology class, everything I had due next week—none of it mattered right now.
All that mattered was this 2k. This chance. This one moment to show Hale I wasn’t just hanging on by grit and wishful thinking. I was the real deal. I was on his level.
Tyler leaned close. “Ready to suffer?”
“If this is suffering, then I’m a masochist.”
He laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
Remy stepped up to the front like he always did, small and sharp and somehow louder than the whole room without raising his voice.
Seeing him there reminded me of last year, when he coxed our freshman eight and turned a boat full of terrified rookies into Riverside’s fastest crew.
I could still see him up in the stern, dark skin shining with sweat, eyes locked on the line.
We were down half a length with five hundred to go, guys already dying on the oars, and every other coxswain on the river yelling the same recycled garbage: “Sit up! Lengthen! Legs!”
But Remy? He went quiet for three whole strokes—dead silent—like he was listening to the boat breathe. Then he leaned into the mic and said, calm as a surgeon: “This is exactly where they break. We hit them now.”
And we did.
He counted us through a brutal shift—ten, then fifteen, then twenty—and somehow made every number feel personal, like he’d tied a rope to our lungs and refused to let us drown. We surged past in the last hundred, blades shredding water, Princeton’s stern drifting backward. We won by a bowball.
Everyone knew it was him. Remy saw the opening before we did. He always did.
Now, watching him roll his shoulders like he was about to conduct an orchestra instead of a room of sweaty rowers, I felt that same flicker of electricity under my ribs. If Remy said we were going to war on these ergs, then we were.
And God help anyone who wasn’t ready.
“Ten seconds!” Remy said.
The room fell silent except for the collective inhale.
Hale nodded to us. “Let it rip.”
Then—
“GO!” Remy yelled, just like he would at a race.
Flywheels screamed to life. My legs exploded off the start. I yanked for those insane sub-1:30 splits—numbers I’d only ever touched for five desperate strokes at a time. The screen flashed 1:29, then 1:30.
Olympic-level insanity. What the hell am I doing?
My lungs burned. My grip started to shake. My legs felt like they were filling with cement. My split skyrocketed to mid-1:40s.
And for a split second—just one—I thought about Alex.
About his clean catch. His perfect rhythm. The way he rowed like every motion started three strokes before he took it. The way he’d moved with me once, just once, on Brackett Lake—long, precise, like he’d handed me a blueprint.
I matched the memory. Settle. Lengthen. Breathe.
My split steadied—1:38. Held.
1:36. Held.
1:34. Held.
Fuck yes.
Hale paused behind me. I felt him check my screen, which sent a shock of adrenaline straight through me.
“Good, Moore,” he said. “You’ve got more. Don’t rush it.”
I found something deeper in my legs. Not force. Rhythm. Alex’s rhythm. That thought pissed me off enough to push harder.
Halfway in, the room sounded like a battlefield—chains clattering, breaths breaking, a freshman behind me already wheezing like a dying harmonica.
The third 500 was hell. It always was. My vision tunneled. My legs screamed. Tyler was gasping beside me; Jace grunted at the end of each drive like a metronome.
I wanted to quit. I wanted to collapse.
“Don’t you dare back down now—this is where Riverside eats boys!” Remy said.
I imagined Alex’s boat crossing the line ahead of mine. That lit something unholy in my chest.
I was sprinting. Catch. Drive. Release. The rhythm I fell into—Alex’s precise rhythm, like he was right there in front of me. I surged back to low 1:30s again.
My body falling apart. Screaming for me to stop. My form breaking apart.
Then—I hit 2k.
My chain jerked to a stop. Jace was the only one who finished before me. Then Tyler dropped his handle. A chorus of collapsing bodies followed—guys sliding off ergs, hands on heads. Someone dry-heaved into a trash can.
“There we go, motherfuckers! Let’s get this season started!” Remy howled.
I folded forward, chest heaving, eyes burning.
Hale clapped once. “Alright. Breathe, boys. I’ll call out your times in a minute.”
Soon he read the results one by one, working down the rows. Guys barely reacted, too dead to care. When he got to me, he tapped the board with his pen.
“Moore—new personal best. Nice work.”
A warmth hit my chest hard enough to sting. I didn’t smile—I couldn’t—but my whole body hummed with something raw and relieved.
Tyler elbowed me. “Dude. Sick time.”
“Thanks,” I panted.
When Hale dismissed us, Jace limped over with a towel around his neck.
“Nice time,” he said, that calm captain vibe radiating off him. “You’re in striking distance now.”
“Of what?” I asked.
He grinned. “Scouts. If you keep this up, Hale’s gonna push your name forward this season.”
My heart kicked so hard I felt it in my throat.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Seriously. That’s how it happened to me.” Jace clapped my shoulder. “Don’t waste it.”
Then he walked off, leaving my pulse racing harder than it had during the test.
Maybe this year could be something. And yeah... a stupid, traitorous part of me thought, maybe I can learn something from Alex.
But I shut that down fast. Not going there. No thanks.