Chapter 10 Alex
The Kingswell boathouse gym felt more like a cathedral than a training space.
Glass walls, clean lines, and rows of ergs arranged in perfect symmetry like pews waiting for sinners.
The lights hummed overhead, reflecting off the polished floor and giving the whole room an almost sterile kind of authority.
It was a place that demanded control.
Not ideal, considering I walked in feeling like my insides were still shaking.
My father’s voice hadn’t left me. Neither had Liam’s face in that Riverside video. The way he rowed like he had something to prove to the universe, but more likely something he wanted to prove to me.
You need to crush him, Alexander. Your legacy depends on it.
The words echoed through me until I felt hollow. Crush him? I didn’t know about that, but I did have an unsanctioned crush on him. Stupid thought.
I took a deep breath.
Marcus spotted me first. He was sitting on an erg like it was his personal throne.
He lifted his eyebrows as I entered. “Big afternoon, huh? Heard Eldridge is dropping the lineups for the scrimmage today.”
I forced something that resembled a smile. “Yup, can’t wait to see what we’re in for this weekend.”
He studied me for a second. “You look stressed.”
“That’s just my face,” I said.
He snorted. “Then your face needs therapy, my friend.”
Before I could answer, Derek Shaw stepped out from the hallway, clipboard in hand, posture straight as a rigging line. He was tall and powerfully built, with close-cropped dark brown hair and steady hazel eyes that caught everything without judgment.
Derek always carried himself like he was holding the team together by sheer presence alone, and the truth was... he was. He was the team captain—calm and grounded. Since he was here on a scholarship, didn’t come from money, he’d earned everything he had.
I admired that about him and it made him different than most of us. It was the same thing I admired about Liam.
He clapped a hand on my shoulder as he passed. “Ready to work, Harrington?”
I nodded, grateful for the solidity of his hand, the way Derek never made things complicated. He didn’t pry. He didn’t hover. He just understood things without being told.
I sat on an erg, my favorite spot by the window so I could look out onto the river. I strapped in my feet and wrapped my hands around the handle.
I gave the handle a tug and the flywheel spun smooth. I bent my knees and the seat slid down toward the front of the machine. My body relaxed but ready to move.
I gave an easy push, my quads, hamstrings, and glutes tightening. As I slid back on the machine I pulled the handle toward my chest. I relaxed and slid back down. Legs, arms, arms, legs.
I got into a rhythm and my heart and lungs started to work.
As I settled into a rhythm, my mind drifted back to the courtyard. Back to the phone call. Back to Liam in that video, sweat glinting down the center of his chest, biceps and forearms squeezing.
Across the gym, two upperclassmen lingered by the water station, voices low but not low enough.
“—apparently a single out there, racing pace—”
“Coach is pissed. Dangerous as hell—”
My heart lurched against my ribs. People were still talking about the race. I wished it would go away. I wished it never happened.
Fuck. Don’t react.
Derek, a few ergs down, paused mid-stretch. Our eyes met. His expression didn’t flinch.
He looked around the room. He knew someone had messed up, but the look he gave me was like he knew it could’ve been me.
I tightened my grip on the handle.
When Coach Eldridge stepped into the room, everything stilled. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture strict, gaze sweeping across us like a searchlight.
I slid to a stop.
“Gentlemen,” he said, voice slicing clean through the air, “before we begin, we need to discuss something serious.”
No one moved.
“I’m hearing rumors. Rumors about unsafe behavior on the river.”
My pulse hammered.
“If a Kingswell athlete was seen rowing at a race cadence—without supervision, without sanction, without a launch following—“
He let the silence stretch. It felt like standing in front of a firing squad.
”—that athlete would never row for this university again. Not this season. Not ever.”
My throat closed. Eldridge didn’t look at me and he didn’t need to; it felt like every word was aimed straight at my chest.
“Kingswell Rowing is built on discipline,” he continued. “On composure. If you want to behave like amateurs, transfer to a program that tolerates carelessness. Understood?”
Everyone responded in unison. “Understood.”
Eldridge let the tension settle for another long beat before shifting his clipboard under his arm.
“Now,” he said, voice clipped but even, “we have business to cover. The scrimmage lineups.”
A few guys straightened. Others stiffened. Some pretended not to care, tried to look cool, but they were the most nervous.
Eldridge flipped to a fresh page.
“We’ll begin with the doubles,” he said. “Marcus, you’re paired with Collins. Riverside’s putting Ortiz and Sheffield against you. Expect a high-rate sprint from them.”
Marcus muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Bring it,” and a couple of other sophomores snickered.
Eldridge didn’t acknowledge it. He continued down the list.
“For the varsity pairs,” he said, “Shaw and Reynolds will take the Kingswell lead. Riverside is sending their captain, Davison, and his stroke partner.”
A ripple went through the room at the mention of Jace Davison—Riverside’s most respected and quietly feared rower. The guy rowed in a U23 National boat last year.
Derek didn’t react, of course.
He nodded once, absorbing the information like he already had a plan forming behind his eyes.
Eldridge kept moving, outlining lineups, names, and lanes with military precision. The more he spoke, the heavier the air felt. Guys shifted in place, feet tapping, jaws clenching.
As Eldridge went down the line, it became clear what everyone expected. Alex and Liam would be racing one-on-one in the varsity single.
Eldridge paused, flipping to the final section of the sheet.
“For the varsity single,” he said, “Harrington will race Moore.”
It hit the room like a dropped oar. Several guys let out quiet whistles.
Someone near the back said, “Not surprised.”
Another voice added, “Rivalry of the season right there.”
And all I could think was… Act surprised.
Derek’s eyes flicked toward me for a heartbeat, steady and unreadable. I raised my eyebrows like I had no idea it was coming, grinned, and nodded my head.
Eldridge, mercifully, didn’t linger on it. He snapped his clipboard closed. “Two pieces. Twenty minutes each. Ladders. Begin.”
The room erupted into motion.
I grabbed the handle and drove back and my first stroke was sloppy. My split jumped too high. My breathing was already off. I tried to correct it, to focus on the mechanics—weight at the catch, legs first, core tight, clean finish—but everything inside me felt scrambled.
And Liam wouldn’t leave my mind.
His face that morning on the river. The spark that shot through me when our boats aligned. The deadly look when he edged ahead.
Wanting him and having to resent him in equal measure was tearing me in half.
I pulled harder, chasing something I couldn’t name.
You must crush him, Alexander.
Marcus leaned over between intervals. “Dude. Shoulders down. You’re rowing like an amateur.”
I ignored him.
The second piece was worse. My rhythm broke twice, and every time it happened my lungs seized like the air had teeth. By the time Eldridge called for cooldown, my whole body was vibrating.
It wasn’t the good kind of post-workout buzz.
I sagged forward, hands dangling between my knees as I tried to steady my breath.
Marcus dropped beside me, his shirt plastered to him, hair sticking up at odd angles, half-soaked in sweat, and a smell that said he wasn’t wearing deodorant.
“You good?” he asked, nudging my shoulder with his own.
I swallowed hard. “Just a rough day.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Don’t lie to me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “This is about Moore, right?”
My breath hitched. “It’s not—”
“Dude.” He gave me a look that sliced through my pathetic attempt at hiding the truth. “It’s about Moore.”
I looked at the floor, jaw tightening. “It’s complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated,” he said, but his voice was soft. “But the thing with Moore? It’s... not. You’re racing him. That’s it. One guy. One race. One stupid scrimmage that no one outside this program will care about in a week.”
My chest tightened. “My dad cares.”
“Yeah, well, your dad also wears loafers to barbecues and thinks ‘networking’ is life. Not exactly what you’re all about... right?”
I snorted despite myself.
Marcus continued. “Look. You’re strong. You’re clean. You’re technical. You’re going to be fine tomorrow. And even if Moore is some prodigy demigod on the water, who cares? It’s not Nationals. It’s not Henley. It’s a scrimmage in September.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” he insisted. “You’re just carrying all your dad’s bullshit. It’s too much weight, man.”
“I know... I just—“
“Dude, when Eldridge announced it you looked like a possessed Victorian child. Is that what you want to look like?”
A laugh burst out of me, unexpected and embarrassingly loud.
Marcus grinned. He bumped my knee with his. “Dude, you gotta chill. Fuck the legacy stuff. Seriously. Parents get in our heads and stay there like mold. You don’t owe them perfection. Not even close.”
I hesitated. “He called me hours ago and he knew the lineup...”
“Seriously?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, dude... I feel like he set this up. He wants me to beat Liam. Badly. And if I don’t...”
Marcus shook his head in disgust. “Your dad is a fucking weirdo. Who does that? Doesn’t he have better things to do?”
“Apparently not. He thinks that—”
Marcus raised a hand. “Pause. Why does he get to decide what you need? You want to beat Moore? Cool. Race your heart out. But do it because you want it. Fuck him.”
The words hit somewhere deep.
Marcus shrugged. “And hey... even if you lose? Big deal. Athletes lose. Rivals win sometimes. Blame it on Thomas Harrington if he set the shit up.”
I sat with that for a moment, letting the tightness in my chest loosen just enough to breathe.
Then Marcus slung an arm over my shoulders and pulled me into a half-hug. A bro hug.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “No matter what happens, you’re not alone in this. You’ve got a whole team behind you. Including your favorite pain in the ass.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. “Thanks, Marcus.”
He nodded. “Anytime. Now remember, first weekend party on Saturday. So whether you win or lose, we’re getting blasted that night.”
And for the first time all day, the panic eased.
I’d known Marcus for a long time and most of the time he was a dick.
But he cared and that felt good. He knew what it was like to come from wealth.
His dad was just as bad, but the difference between me and Marcus—he was the problem child and I was the good boy who did everything I was told.
Maybe this year was the year I’d be a little more like Marcus.