Chapter 7 Liam
The morning sun climbed high by the time Noah and I cut across the main quad. We had just finished breakfast and we were headed in the same direction—me to the boathouse, him to Emler Hall, the English and Communications building.
The air still held the last bit of early-morning coolness, but campus was already waking up. Students cut across the quad, clutching coffee, talking and laughing—the usual rhythm of Riverside coming to life.
Noah matched my stride, though he was a few inches shorter than me and a heck of a lot skinnier. He wore his usual jeans, boots, and a plaid button-down rolled at the sleeves. His leather satchel bag thumped against his hip.
It was odd how close we’d gotten over the last year, despite our obvious differences, but there’s something that happens when you live with someone in a Riverside dorm.
You sleep next to them, you start and end every day together, and you suffer the conditions together.
You get to know each other’s moods, flaws, and habits… in a very intimate way.
He carried himself with this calm, unhurried energy that felt at odds with everything buzzing inside my chest.
“So the debate team had our first meeting last night,” Noah said. “And Marcus Chen announced he’s stepping down as captain at the end of the semester. Some grad school thing.”
“Wait, already? It’s week one.”
“Exactly. But apparently he needs to ‘transition leadership early’ so whoever takes over has time to learn the ropes. Sarah cornered me after and told me I need to run for it.”
I glanced at him. “You going to?”
“Hell no,” Noah said. “I just want to argue about policy and go home. But apparently I’m ‘the only one who can keep the team from spiraling before matches.’”
“That’s probably true.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t want the job,” he said, adjusting his satchel. “I didn’t sign up to be everyone’s therapist. I’ve seen what happens to captains—they stop having fun and start obsessing over rankings and all that bullshit.”
I huffed. “Sounds familiar.”
“Right?” He shook his head. “Anyway, Sarah won’t drop it. Says if I don’t run, this guy named Brett will, and he’s the type who treats debate like a résumé builder instead of, you know, actually caring about the arguments.”
“So you’re screwed either way.”
“Basically.” He paused, then glanced at me. “Speaking of being screwed—you nervous about the scrimmage?”
I shrugged. “Not really.”
We passed the fountain at the center of campus, its spray catching light in small scattered rainbows. I kept my hands tucked into the pockets of my sweats, trying to ground myself.
The morning had started earlier than usual for me—barely any sleep, way too much thinking, and a stomach that felt like someone had tied it into three different knots.
I barely ate breakfast.
“You're nervous.” Noah said after a minute.
“No dude, I’m fine,” I said.
“It’s okay to be nervous.”
“I know.” I flashed him a look like a kid does to a nagging parent.
“All right, well, since you’re not in a chatty mood, I guess I should tell you something else.”
“What?”
“We also got prelims for our first match.”
“Against who?” I said, interest flickering.
“Kingswell,” he confirmed. “The royal court of pretentious man-children.”
That made me laugh. “Where do you come up with this shit?”
“I have another hundred if you want,” he said. “But anyway, we got our potential prompts. Three of them. Want to hear?”
“Sure.”
He pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his satchel like it was a prophecy. “All right. First prompt: ‘Should elite private institutions be forced to share resources with under-funded public schools?’”
I snorted. “Seriously? You’re going to annihilate them.”
Noah hated Kingswell as much as any self-respecting Riverside State student. The difference was... he was smart and could murder anyone with his words.
“One hopes,” he said. “Prompt two: ‘Does athletic culture reinforce emotional repression in men?’”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, feeling called out. “And what’s the third?”
He hesitated, then smirked. “This one’s a little on the nose. ‘Are rivalries between universities detrimental to student well-being?’”
I smiled. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope!” he said. “Seems like the universe wants me to roast Kingswell and their sick little superiority complex live on stage.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Guess we’re both up against them.”
“Exactly, you on the water against brutish jocks. Me in a room full of anxious nerds with microphones.”
“A battle of physical dominance and intellectual warfare?”
“Basically.”
“We should get matching shirts.”
“We should not.”
But he was smiling, and so was I.
Or at least, something inside me loosened enough to feel lighter. It meant something, having him joke about it. Hearing him frame it as something we were both stepping into.
Two fronts of the same war.
We rounded the corner leading toward the river path, the scent of damp leaves drifting on the breeze. As we approached the long stretch of pavement that led toward the Riverside side of campus, someone came into view, walking up from the boathouse with an energy that set me on edge.
Tyler.
He spotted us, his attention snapping to me like he’d been waiting.
“Moore,” he called out, slowing just enough to speak. “Dude… you have no idea what’s about to happen.”
My stomach tightened. “What?”
He gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “Scrimmage matchups are posted.”
Just like that, he kept moving, hands in his pockets, whistling like someone who’d dropped a live grenade and decided it was somebody else’s problem.
My heartbeat pulled tight.
Noah looked at me. “You good?”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
He didn’t believe me. “I’ll come with you. I got time.”
“Thanks.”
The closer we got to the boathouse, the more I felt that tightening in my lungs, that slow build of adrenaline that hit right before something major.
We stepped inside.
The hallway was packed.
Voices collided in the narrow space, ricocheting off the oar racks and the framed photos of past Riverside crews. Someone had propped the back windows open to let in the river breeze, and sunlight streamed across the floorboards.
Everyone gathered around the bulletin board.
Noah nudged me. “You ready?”
I didn’t answer.
I pushed through the crowd. A few of them clapped each other on the backs, others craned their necks to see the sheet pinned to the cork board with a single silver pushpin.
I reached it.
There it was.
Varsity Single — Liam Moore vs. Alex Harrington
Everything else around it faded.
It was like the words hit some invisible switch inside my chest. A tight, bright spark that spread in two directions at once: one of pure, instinctive adrenaline, and the other total fucking dread.
I was damn happy that I was put in a single... but against Alex? I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
I figured it was going to happen, but now that it was a reality, I wasn’t sure if I should be excited to beat him in front of everyone... or scared of the exact opposite. Alex was good, and he already beat me once this year.
Would it happen again?
Behind me, someone muttered, “Oh shit. The rivalry really begins.”
Another guy snorted. “Moore versus Harrington. Can’t believe they’re letting that go down one-on-one.”
Some freshman who didn’t know me added, “Bet he wants that one-on-one action.”
My jaw snapped tight. “Fuck off,” I said, turning toward him.
He raised his hands like he was about to be attacked by a wild animal. “Damn, man. Just a joke.”
“Hilarious.”
Noah scooted in. “Breathe,” he said.
I gave Noah my “okay dad” eyes and backed off.
“Moore.”
I looked up.
Coach Hale stood in the doorway of his office, one hand braced against the frame.
“Step inside,” he said. “I want a word.”
“We’ll talk later,” Noah said.
I nodded before I headed in.
The small office smelled like old paper and burnt coffee.
The walls were lined with mementos: mounted oars, silver medals, and a framed clipping from an Olympic championship.
The desk fan hummed in the corner. It was comforting because it was real.
I couldn’t imagine what the Kingswell coach’s office looked like—probably marble floors and caviar.
“Sit,” Hale said.
I dropped into the cracked leather chair opposite him. It had molded to generations of rowers before me. I felt the weight of all those conversations—pep talks, warnings, and legendary ass-chewings. I wasn’t sure what this was going to be. Maybe he found out about the race with Alex.
Fuck. Please no.
I would just have to deny it. I prepared myself to do it.
Hale lowered himself into his own chair and laced his fingers together. For a moment, he didn’t speak. He just studied me with a kind of focused attention that made me feel too seen.
“You’ve come a long way since last year,” he said.
I tilted my head.
“Liam, relax. This is all good,” he said.
I let out the breath I was holding.
“Last year wasn’t easy. You had to scrape for every meter, every stroke, every seat. Some guys break under that. But you didn’t. You worked. You figured out what needed changing. You put in the hours.”
A warmth tightened in my chest, a mix of appreciation and strange disbelief.
“I put you in the single because you earned it,” Hale continued, leaning back. “But also because you have something I can’t teach.”
I swallowed, steadying my voice. “What’s that?”
“Fire,” he said. “The raw kind. Stubborn. Hungry. Unbreakable.”
I felt the words settle in my chest.
“But fire without control burns out. Or worse, it burns the wrong thing down.”
My jaw tensed.
He wasn’t wrong.
The moments when I had ruined things with my anger flashed through my mind. The blowup with my mom right before Christmas last year, the time I barked at Jace in front of the whole crew when he corrected my posture, and the day at the marina last summer when Jerry almost fired me.
“And I don’t want to see that happen to you. You’ve worked too hard. But you still haven’t learned how to manage your emotions.”