Chapter 6 Alex
I walked down the river path to the boathouse, gravel crunching under my feet. Preseason testing had begun. This morning would determine our lineups for the scrimmage with Riverside. I wasn’t nervous, but I could feel the pressure in my chest. The normal pressure.
I walked down the dock, watching the water, trying to steady my breath.
Behind me, the boathouse glowed. The lower bay opened straight onto the water. Racks of shells lined up in perfect rows, each one spotless and gleaming. The whole place felt designed to impress donors.
“Morning, Harrington.”
Mason Liu stepped inside, carrying his oars over one shoulder. He ran his hand through his short black hair.
“Didn’t think you’d beat me here,” he said.
I forced a smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Mason was chill, nothing spectacular, but he was a good guy to have on a four or an eight. Solid rower and no drama. I liked Mason.
Further down the bay, Braden Lockwood stood six-foot-two with crew-cut brown hair, blue-grey eyes that carried practiced prep-school cool, and the wiry-powerful build of someone who’d been told his entire life he was destined to be Kingswell’s future.
He was the exact opposite of Mason.
Ever since last year, the guy had it out for me.
Legacy kid—apparently our fathers had some kind of rivalry back in the day.
I never asked my dad about it. Didn’t care.
I outclassed Braden in everything. I’d been rowing longer, working harder, and his form was shit.
The only thing he had going for him was that he was kind of hot in a cute way. .. at least I thought so.
Coach Eldridge’s voice floated from the office above. “Varsity group 2—off the dock in ten. Warm up in your singles.”
My stomach dropped. That was me. And I was in a single today. Not what I wanted to hear.
In a four or an eight, even a double, every stroke was shared. Every mistake got absorbed by rhythm and synchronicity. There was comfort in that. Safety. I liked moving as one body—not being alone with my errors.
I wheeled my boat down the sloped dock. The fiberglass shell felt light under my hands. Braden shoved off ahead of me. Mason followed.
I pushed away last.
Braden and Mason were already gliding downriver, warming up with easy, confident strokes. About fifteen other varsity guys were either on the river already or joining us.
I dipped my blades. Took a few light strokes. Followed.
My breath puffed white in the cold. The only sounds were the slide of seats and the soft splash of oars entering the water.
We paddled a few hundred meters downstream. Enough to let the river open up. Enough for my shoulders to loosen. Enough for the flutter in my chest to settle. Braden took a few aggressive bursts for no reason other than to show off.
We circled back toward the dock.
Eldridge raised the megaphone. His voice cut across the stillness.
“Alright, gentlemen. This morning’s pieces will help determine placements for the scrimmage with Riverside. I want clarity today. Power when I call for it. Discipline when you settle.”
My stomach tightened. A scrimmage this early in the season was unheard of. The first few weeks were stressful enough—erg tests, boat placements. Now he was using singles to evaluate us?
Perfect.
He adjusted his sunglasses even though the sun wasn’t up yet. “We’ll run staggered starts. Five-hundred-meter sprints. First group—Braden and Mason. Alex, you’ll chase. Row into position.”
Chasing meant I was supposed to stay behind them. Match their rhythm. React to their pace. Not pass them. They were the ones being evaluated. I was just the control variable.
Bullshit.
Eldridge knew I was better than both of them.
I moved into the start line a length behind them. Watched Braden square his blades with perfect arrogance. Mason settled beside him, shoulders loose, chill as usual.
Eldridge raised his hand.
“Ready—”
My hands tightened around the handles. My heart kicked into gear. I could feel every ounce of doubt pressing on my sternum.
“Go!”
Braden exploded off the line. Mason followed half a beat later—smooth, patient. I drove hard into my first ten strokes. Legs burning. Breath loud in my ears. The single rocked under the force of my start and my heart lurched.
That was the thing about rowing that most people didn’t understand. Every moment counted. No room for error. Every angle, every drive, even the recovery when the oar was out of the water—it all mattered.
I was off to a rocky start and it could mess with my whole sprint. Even though I wasn’t in the race, I still had to perform.
Coach was watching.
I took a deep breath. Steady. Settle. Don’t overthink it. Find the rhythm.
The boat leveled out. The river slid under me like silk. Braden held the lead. Mason shadowed him. I could feel myself inching closer, stroke by stroke, but the panic was still there—tight, clawing.
Maybe Coach wants me in a single. Maybe he thinks I’m better off alone. Maybe I’m failing before the season even starts.
The thoughts shoved themselves in. Distracted me. The shell reacted with the most subtle lurch.
Damn it.
I inhaled hard. Tried to shut everything out.
I looked at the horizon instead of the boat in front of me. Loosened my grip. Lowered my shoulders. Let the boat breathe.
Exhaled.
And that’s when I felt it. The river opened up ahead of Braden and Mason like it wanted me there. Eldridge put me here for a reason. Right behind two guys I knew I could beat.
The truth hit me like cold water.
He’s testing me.
To see if I’ll obey and stay quiet in someone else’s shadow.
For a heartbeat, I felt that old instinct rise. The part of me that’s always played the good son. The polite teammate. The boy who follows instructions.
No.
I can’t be that guy anymore. The end of this year marks the halfway point through my college rowing career. If I don’t break out now, I’ll never be seen for who I am. Not just Alex Harrington—another legacy kid who couldn’t live up to the legacy.
I thought of Ethan. No legacy. No expectation. He just took up space without apologizing for it. Carefree. Happy. Himself.
I wanted that.
I wasn’t staying small this year. Wasn’t trailing behind anyone. I was going to lead.
The single didn’t feel like a cage anymore. And why should it?
I didn’t need a boat full of guys to disguise my flaws.
The truth was I didn’t have many—not when it came to rowing.
I had oars in my hands before I could drive.
I’d spent more time in a single than most guys would spend in their entire careers.
All of the summer programs, morning training sessions, regattas I’d won—it flashed through my mind.
The calluses. The pain. All earned.
My shell felt it.
Came to life.
I fell into the motion—catch, drive, release; catch, drive, release—the rhythm pulsing through my arms and legs. My muscles burned in a way that felt clean instead of panicked. My lungs opened wider, pulling in air like I’d stopped fighting myself.
Every stroke sent power up my spine. The boat surged with me, not against me, matching my heartbeat.
By 250 meters, I’d closed half a length on Mason.
By 300, I was level with him. I could feel his eyes flash toward me. His pace stayed steady. Mason wouldn’t challenge me.
By 350, Braden glanced over his shoulder. I saw the flicker of surprise.
Good.
The first clean slice of sun broke over the water, turning the river into liquid gold. The light caught the droplets flying off my blade. It was beautiful.
And that was my cue.
There was blood in the water.
I wasn’t chasing. I was hunting.
I drove through the last hundred like the boat was an extension of me. My catches were clean. Long, powerful drives.
No panic.
No noise except the slide of my seat and the pulse of water under the hull.
Next to me, Mason was still grinding, face tight. I edged up on him, my bow creeping toward his stern like it had been aiming for him all along. Another stroke and I eased past like he wasn’t even there.
Braden was still ahead, throwing down the kind of frantic stroke rate he used when he was scared. I saw his shoulders tighten. His body curl. His rhythm fall apart.
My precision was destroying him.
It felt good.
When I came level with him, he made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder.
Just once.
Just long enough.
His expression cracked. Shock. Disbelief. A silent “What the hell is he doing?” written across his face.
That look lit a fuse in me.
It’s over for you.
I lengthened. Sent the next drive through my legs like a strike. My bow slid past his, inch by inch, until he disappeared behind me and all I could hear was my own breath, the slide of my seat, and the happy thump of my heart.
Open water.
When I crossed the invisible finish line, I knew I’d taken it.
Coach Eldridge’s voice echoed from behind. “Alex—first. Braden—second. Mason—close third.”
This wasn’t about competition. Wasn’t about beating Braden, although it felt good.
This was about me taking center stage and learning how to be myself. I always undercut myself. Always thought I was less than everyone else.
People complimented me—told me how great I was, how determined, how disciplined—and maybe they were comfortable with those compliments because they knew I wouldn’t step into them.
They knew I didn’t believe it. That left them in control of me.
Not anymore.
I wasn’t some lazy legacy fuck-up. I was a badass and I was going to start acting like it.
Eldridge hadn’t put me here to trail behind Braden and Mason. He’d put me here because he wanted to pull this out of me. That’s what coaches do. He didn’t want me to stay in someone else’s wake. He wanted me to take control.
Today I did.
The locker room was warm—steam rising off the showers, tiles damp, everything smelling like eucalyptus. I peeled off my unisuit, trying to calm the adrenaline still simmering in my chest. My legs trembled, but it wasn’t exhaustion this time.
Pride.
I was halfway through toweling off when I felt someone staring.
Braden leaned against the row of lockers across from me. Arms crossed. Jaw tight enough to crack. He was still wet, water dripping down his bare chest, towel wrapped low around his waist.
A thin trail of hair led down from his navel and disappeared beneath the towel. I could see the outline of his dick pressing against the fabric.
My brain registered it before I could stop it—the definition, the size—and heat flashed through me.
No. Stop.
I forced my eyes up to his face.
“Didn’t expect you to sprint like that,” he said.
I opened my locker. Pulled on a dry pair of briefs. “Yeah. Well. Good race.”
Braden scoffed. “You were supposed to chase. You know that, right? Eldridge put you behind us so we could set the pace.”
“That’s one interpretation,” I said.
His eyes narrowed. “You think that was some kind of statement?”
“No.” I grabbed my tee-shirt. “It was a race.”
He pushed off the locker. Stepped closer. Too close.
“You think you’re above everyone just because you’re a Harrington.”
There it was. This bullshit family rivalry I wanted no part of.
I sighed. “Braden, I don’t have the energy—”
“Of course you don’t,” he snapped, voice rising. “You Harringtons are always cheating, just like your father.”
I froze.
“That’s not true,” I said.
Braden blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t care about whatever rivalry our dads had,” I said, turning to face him. “I don’t care about old race tapes or who hated who thirty years ago. That has nothing to do with us.”
“It has everything to do with us,” Braden hissed. “Our families built this program. Legacy is the whole point.”
“Not for me.”
He laughed. “You think you’re better than the rest of us?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just not interested in reliving someone else’s drama.”
He stepped forward again. Chest brushing mine. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have won.”
A muscle jumped in my jaw. “Maybe you should fix your form.”
For a second, I thought he’d swing. The air tightened between us.
Then—
“Wow.”
Ethan strolled in like he owned the place.
“I leave you boys alone for five minutes and it turns into Real Housewives: Legacy Edition.”
I smirked. Fucker.
Braden stepped back. Turned. “Ethan, stay out of this.”
“No,” Ethan said, sliding between us. “You’re both dripping wet and nobody’s even kissed yet. This is boring.”
“Ethan—” I started.
He patted my cheek. “Hush. Let Auntie Ethan handle it.”
Braden rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Enjoy your little victory lap, Harrington. It’s not going to last long.”
He stomped back down to his locker to change.
I pulled on my shirt and shoes, then Ethan guided me out of the locker room.
“Someone’s testosterone is set to ‘boil,’” he said. “He wants to play out this family rivalry, huh?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t like sharing the spotlight with the other legacy prince.” Ethan put his arm around my shoulder.
I didn’t respond.
The last thing I wanted was to inherit whatever crown my father thought he’d forged at Kingswell. I didn’t want his shadow, his rivalries, or the weight of his name. I just wanted to be myself for once.
My own rower. My own person. Not some legacy puppet everyone expected me to perform as.
Ethan’s warm hazel eyes softened. “Hey,” he said. “Forget him.”
I nodded. Unclenched my fists. “I’m good.”
“You’re lying,” he said, cheerful as ever. “But that’s okay, because I come bearing gifts.”
He lifted his phone, screen already cued up.
“I got the perfect clip from your sprint,” he said. “Sun-drenched, water gleaming, your form disgustingly clean—it should be illegal to look this good at six AM.”
I blinked. “You... filmed it?”
“Obviously. The team page needs preseason content.” He grinned. “And you need to see what you look like when you’re not overthinking everything.”
He pressed play.
And for a strange, warm second, my anger melted and I just watched myself fly.