Chapter 11 Liam
The locker room was already loud when I walked in—guys tossing gear bags onto the benches, unisuits half on, the air thick with that pre-practice humidity. I barely got to my locker when Tyler flung a half-empty water bottle in my direction.
“Look who finally rolled in. The chosen one.”
“Jesus Christ, dude! Trying to knock me out?”
I dodged the water bottle and it hit the concrete block wall.
Tyler barked out a laugh. “I’d need more than a water bottle to knock out a beast like you.”
I shook my head and sat on the bench by my locker.
Jace was tying his shoes a little further down. “Hale talked to you, right?” he asked.
I shrugged, pretending it didn’t mean anything. “He talked. I listened.”
Remy peeked out from behind a row of lockers with a mischievous smile. “Translation: coach said ‘future captain,’ and Liam had a full-body crisis.”
The guys laughed, and I’d normally fire back, but all I could feel was weight—Hale’s expectations, Emily’s expectations, and the fact that I’d jacked off to Alex last night.
It had been a while, maybe almost a year since I’d done that.
It felt fucking good though.
“Speaking of crises...” Tyler said, eyebrows raised, “who rowed that unsanctioned sprint the other morning?”
My hands froze mid-motion.
Great. This. This was the exact conversation I never wanted to have. So I didn’t say shit.
Then, a tall, lean senior with short brown hair and a scar along his forearm from a boat crash when he was a kid, walked into the locker room. His name was Cal Richmond, Jace’s partner in the varsity double. He rowed stroke.
Cal gave me a nod as he passed, then glanced at Tyler. “You still obsessing over that ghost race?”
“Yeah, because it’s mysterious as hell,” Tyler shot back. “And this boathouse hasn’t had mystery since the stolen trophy.”
I perked up, grateful for the distraction. “Wait, what stolen trophy?”
Tyler’s eyes lit up. “Oh man, you don’t know? The IRA Championship trophy from ’67. Only national title Riverside ever won. Three years later—poof—gone.”
“Someone broke in?” I asked.
“That’s the thing,” Remy said, leaning against his locker. “No break-in. No forced entry. Just vanished overnight.”
Cal snorted. “Everyone knows Kingswell took it.”
“There’s literally a photo,” Tyler said. “Some alumni event in the ’80s. Trophy’s sitting in the background clear as day.”
“They claimed it was a replica,” Remy added with air quotes.
“Bullshit,” Tyler said. “That trophy is sitting in some Kingswell donor’s lake house right now, guaranteed.”
Jace shook his head. “Hale won’t talk about it. Says it’s ancient history.”
“Because it pisses him off,” Cal said. “His mentor was on that ’67 boat. Hale takes that shit personally.”
A few guys laughed, and the tension in the room eased. I felt my shoulders drop slightly.
Then Tyler turned back to me, grin fading. “Anyway—back to the ghost race. Someone was out there.”
My stomach dropped again.
Cal opened his locker. “Whoever did it was stupid. Going race pace with no launch? Asking for trouble.”
The word stupid hit my stomach like a weight.
Tyler wasn’t finished. “I asked everybody,” he said.
“Everyone. All the freshmen swore it wasn’t them, and the upperclassmen said the same.
So, the only person I haven’t asked…” His gaze swung to me.
“Liam. Buddy. Pal. You’re the only one left who’d be unhinged enough to do a full-on sprint in a single before the season even started. ”
My pulse spiked. “Wasn’t me.”
Tyler raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Because rumor has it the guy out there looked big. Strong. Kind of pissed at the world.”
“Drop it,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
But Remy perked up. “No, wait. I heard something else. He wasn’t alone out there. Bow-to-bow with someone.”
Jace, pulling on a clean shirt, glanced over—just curious.
“Rumor says it was Harrington,” Remy added. “Kingswell golden boy. You two already race or what?”
My throat felt dry.
Tyler pushed off the lockers and stepped closer. Not aggressive, just too interested. “Dude, did you and Alex go head-to-head before preseason? Like... what? Trying to size each other up? Who even won?”
“No one,” I snapped. “Because it didn’t happen.”
Cal leaned back against his locker. “People talk, Liam. Someone raced someone.”
“It wasn’t me,” I repeated.
Tyler studied me and I felt cornered. Because this wasn’t harmless teasing anymore. This was pressure. This was the walls closing in.
Remy tilted his head.
“Dude,” Tyler said, lowering his voice but not his intensity, “you know I respect you. But if you did something that could get you benched, we need to know. Coach Hale would—”
“Enough,” Jace said, stepping between us with the authority of captain. “If Liam says it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him.”
Tyler opened his mouth. Jace gave him one look and Tyler shut it.
Cal closed his locker with a soft click. “Whoever it was, it was reckless. They’re lucky nothing happened to their boat... or themselves.”
My stomach twisted harder.
“Alright guys, let’s get down to the river,” Jace said.
The room cleared out and Jace turned to me. “You good?”
I nodded, even though every nerve in my body was lit up.
“Good. Let’s hit the water.” Jace turned and headed for the door.
And me? I stood there feeling like the floor had tilted beneath my feet.
It hit me just how many people knew. Just how close this secret was to blowing up my season. My scholarship. My whole future. Alex’s too. But he could probably get out of it—he was legacy, he was wealthy. I didn’t have that. I just had a mom with two jobs hoping I’d make something better of myself.
All this and the scrimmage was tomorrow.
The river was still holding the last traces of late-afternoon gold when I walked down the dock. My single bobbed beside me, hull touching the water with the soft confidence of a boat that knew it could punish me for every mistake.
I rested a hand on the gunwale and let myself breathe in the river air—brackish, cool, familiar. My body felt wired, humming with too much energy, like every muscle had been switched on one notch too high.
Then I heard Remy’s voice in the distance.
The freshman eight slid toward the dock, blades flashing in perfect alternating arcs. Remy sat in the cox seat, tucked low, headset crackling through the boat speakers. Even from here, I could hear the difference in how he commanded a crew.
Most coxswains barked.
Remy calibrated.
“Alright, boys,” he said, voice steady, precise. “Sit up. Find the run. Catch placement only. In... two... one... now.”
The freshman eight responded like his words had real power, not fear or toxic pressure. He never wasted a syllable. No ranting. No aimless corrections. Every cue was a direct line to what he wanted the boat to feel.
“Let the stern swing under you,” Remy called. “Quiet hands. Lighter. Good. Hold that.”
The boat lengthened.
Even from the dock I felt myself slipping into their rhythm—the soft slide of seats, the sharp click of oarlocks, the smooth hiss of blades entering water. The freshmen weren’t perfect, not yet, but Remy had them breathing in unison after only ten strokes.
“Draw through. Don’t muscle it,” he continued. “You’re not chopping wood. You’re gliding.”
I found myself smiling. Remy was a born coxswain. He didn’t shout rowers into shape. He stitched them together.
The eight glided past, and Remy flashed me a quick salute with his fingertips.
“Moore,” he called through the speaker. “Try not to embarrass the seniors tomorrow.”
Typical Remy.
I shook my head, already feeling the nerves coil tighter in my stomach.
Behind me, I heard Hale’s footsteps on the planks.
“Moore,” he said, stopping beside me. His eyes stayed on the river, the way they always did, like reading water was easier than reading people. “This year’s freshmen are hungry.”
I nodded. “With Remy coxing them... they’ll be fine.”
A small grunt of approval. “Good combination, a fearless cox and a crew that listens? They might surprise a few people this weekend.” He cut me a sidelong glance. “Hunger takes you far. Direction takes you farther.”
I straightened at that, waiting for whatever came next.
Then he turned toward me. “Now, before you shove off, here’s your plan.”
I waited.
“Three pieces,” Hale said. “First: easy steady state, twenty minutes. Just find your rhythm. Get your head right.”
I nodded.
“Second: five-minute race pace. Not a sprint. Sustainable power. I want to see control, not panic.”
“Got it.”
“Third: three hard bursts. Ten strokes each. Full pressure. Then paddle back.” He paused. “This isn’t about proving anything today. It’s about reminding your body what it can do when your brain gets out of the way.”
“Understood.”
“And Liam?”
“Don’t race the ghost in your head today.”
I nodded. Had I been that obvious?
Hale nodded toward my single. “Go on. Get warm. I’ll check in.”
I pushed off the dock, letting the river take me. The shell steadied beneath me, the narrow seat sliding beneath my hips in that familiar, fragile way—like it was willing to carry me, but only if I didn’t try too hard.
I should’ve felt calm. Instead everything inside me felt loud.
I started the first gliding piece. The stroke should’ve been smooth: controlled leg drive, clean body swing, soft hands through the finish. But the moment I took my first full stroke, my blade slapped the water.
The boat rocked left. Then right. Nothing lined up.
For the next minute, every stroke felt like a different mistake.
Set the damn boat. Breathe. Relax your grip. Listen to the run.
None of it landed. What I needed right now was the smooth commands of Remy. The way he spoke and guided in that rhythm.
My mind kept ripping back to the gazebo at Lake Brackett, to Alex’s face inches from mine when he ended it. The way my chest burned like something had been ripped out. It leapt to the unsanctioned race—the way he slid past me cleanly at the line.
The way it had hollowed me out and lit me up at the same time.
How the hell was I supposed to beat him tomorrow?
He already beat me once.
I was halfway through the second piece when I heard the hum of Hale’s launch approaching. Not fast. Just close enough to say: I see you struggling.
He eased up alongside me.
“Moore,” he said, sighing like he’d been expecting this. “Where’s your head at today?”
“In the boat,” I replied.
He raised an eyebrow. “If that’s true, then I must be looking at the wrong boat.”
I clenched my jaw. “I’m fine.”
“Rowers who are fine don’t row like they’re being chased by demons.”
He nodded toward my hands. “Easy paddle.”
I eased pressure and let the shell glide.
Hale tilted the brim of his hat back. “Talk to me.”
The words hung there. Not a command. Not a threat. Just space.
“It’s just... a lot,” I said. “The scrimmage. The pressure. Expectations. Kingswell.”
“And by Kingswell… you mean Harrington?”
I didn’t answer. My silence betrayed everything.
He rested his hands on the launch rail. “You remind me a little of myself at your age. All drive. No patience. Convinced that force equals progress.”
I blinked. Hale never talked like this.
“But rowing isn’t built on force,” he continued. “It’s built on rhythm. Presence. If you’re fighting yourself in your head, you’re fighting the water. And that’s a fight you’ll lose.”
Something in my chest loosened.
“My coach used to tell me,” Hale said, “‘The river is honest. It gives you exactly what you bring to it, nothing more, nothing less.’ Today you’re bringing panic. The river’s giving it back.”
I swallowed hard. He wasn’t wrong. Not even a little.
“You want to lead someday?” Hale asked. “Then show the boat—and yourself—that you trust your training. Trust your hands. Trust your legs. Trust your work.”
I nodded.
“Reset,” he said. “And Moore?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t row against the idea of Harrington. Row with the stroke in front of you.”
He pulled away, engine humming softly.
I turned my bow toward the sun, inhaled deeply, and set my blades.
Catch. Drive. Swing. Release.
The boat held under me this time. The water didn’t punish me for thinking too hard. It carried me—steady, smooth, patient.
And with each stroke I tried to picture tomorrow.
Alex across from me in a matching single. His face sharp with focus. His rhythm clean, powerful, familiar in a way that still unnerved me.
I had lost to him once in secret, before the season even started. But tomorrow there would be no hiding and everyone would see.
As I rowed, my breath evened out, my blades settling into a steadier rhythm. Something else pushed up inside me, something heavier than the idea of losing to Alex.
I’d spent all of freshman year pretending that summer had burned itself out. That whatever flared between us on Brackett Lake was a phase, a mistake, something distance would dissolve over time. But it wasn’t just the way I felt about Alex—it was what those feelings meant.
Liking a guy wasn’t supposed to be part of my story. I wasn’t gay. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. I liked Emily. I liked girls. She turned me on.
But fuck, the fact that I still had feelings for Alex. That I still checked out guys. That I was jacking off to Alex last night. That was the part I never knew how to deal with—the part I kept trying to row away from, stroke after stroke.
On the next drive, I realized, this wasn’t over. No amount of time, rowing, ignoring would make these feelings go away. Nothing about my attraction to guys or Alex Harrington had ever been over.
And tomorrow I had to face him—not as the boy from the marina, not as the mistake I pretended I’d buried, but as my rival.
The person I had to outpull, outsprint, outmuscle.
Doing battle with the past.
I swallowed hard. My throat tightened. Not from exertion but from the pressure of everything I wouldn’t let myself say. Everything I refused to even name.
I took another stroke. Then another. The rhythm steadied. The boat held beneath me.
I wasn’t ready, but it didn’t matter.
It was coming. Alex was coming.