Chapter 12 Alex
Tomorrow was race day.
The pressure around me felt like it had been simmering since the start of the semester—my father’s expectations, the weight of schoolwork piling up, all the chaos that had already unfolded in the first days of sophomore year.
Surprisingly, one thing wasn’t bothering me at all: whether I could beat Liam. I had already done it, and I knew I could do it again in front of everyone.
The real question, the one I couldn’t escape no matter how many meters I rowed, was what it would mean if I did. What it would mean for him, for me, for whatever existed between us.
There was no “me and him.” Not in any world that mattered.
Only rivals—never anything else.
Coach Eldridge had the launch idling a few meters off my stern, the low hum vibrating through the morning stillness.
The river was flat enough that I could see my reflection between strokes—jaw set, shoulders square, trying to look like the version of myself he wanted to see. The same version my father expected.
“Alex,” Eldridge called, calm as ever. “You’re rushing the slide.”
I exhaled and reset. Legs down, finish through the arms, tap out clean, feather, hands away, body over, then slide.
He taught it to us like a religion: sequence, discipline, inevitability.
“My hands just—“
“Your hands followed the thought, not the stroke.” He eased the launch closer. “Again. Keep your weight off the seat. Let the boat run.”
I focused on the feeling he always talked about—the shell gliding under me instead of me forcing it.
Half-pressure. Technical steady state. My sweet spot.
“That’s better,” he said. “Your early-season form is ahead of the others. Ahead of most sophomores I’ve coached.”
There was no warmth in the praise—Eldridge didn’t do warmth—but something inside me loosened. A tiny release of breath. Approval mattered, even when I hated that it did.
I let the boat run through the puddles—a clear sign of efficiency.
He wasn’t wrong.
My catches were sharp, set before the blade dropped. My finishes were clean. My body angles felt carved into me. I’d spent the entire summer training, trying to fix every flaw before someone else could find it first.
“You were born with good biomechanics, but you think too much. It’s a gift until it isn’t.”
“I don’t understand.” I said.
He didn’t react. “Row again. Technical six. Focus on suspension. Let the oar load after the catch. Don’t muscle it.”
I took the next few strokes cleanly, letting the boat lift just a little under the power of my legs. For a moment, everything clicked—the balance, the silence, the cold morning air. I lived for moments like that, the ones where the pressure fell away and all that existed was rhythm.
And then Liam crossed my mind.
Sharp. Uninvited.
A flash of the way he’d looked at me the other morning, like he saw right through the polished version of me. Like he remembered everything from Brackett Lake too—whether he wanted to or not.
My hands bobbled. The blade caught water early, dragging. The bow lurched left.
“Stop,” Eldridge snapped.
My stomach dropped. I squared the blade and let myself drift.
The launch pulled beside me. Eldridge’s sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could feel him studying me.
“That was a thought.”
I swallowed. “I’m fine.”
“No. Something broke your focus. And it happened fast.”
I stared at the water. He’d seen right through it. Of course he had.
“It won’t happen again,” I said.
“It will, until you address whatever it is.”
I forced my jaw to unclench. “I’ll deal with it.”
His silence told me he didn’t believe a word, but he nudged the launch back anyway.
“Pick it back up. Paddle us home.”
I took a breath and rowed, each stroke a little too tight, a little too aware of the ghost sitting in the boat with me—Liam, furious and alive, the exact distraction I couldn’t afford.
Practice was finished, weights were finished, and I was exhausted enough that I should’ve stumbled straight to my room and collapsed. Instead, I walked into the shower room with my towel slung over my shoulder, already bracing myself.
Kingswell’s locker room was huge—white tile, chrome fixtures, open showers with steam drifting up in soft waves. And bodies. Everywhere. Teammates stripping down, laughing, rinsing off the river and sweat.
Every year it caught me off guard, that easy confidence other guys had with their own skin.
I wasn’t shy. I just didn’t trust myself.
My eyes tried to stay high—faces, lockers, floor, anywhere but the slopes of wet shoulders, the curve of backs, the long lines of legs, the casual way cocks hung between thighs as guys soaped up or turned under the spray.
But it hit me all at once anyway: the heat, the noise, the closeness of it. A dozen naked men under running water, and I was supposed to act like it didn’t affect me.
I stepped under a showerhead, turned it on, and bowed my head into the spray. A few guys were talking about class schedules. Someone further down the row was complaining about blisters. The freshman cox was arguing about fantasy football picks.
But the longer I stood there, the more their voices blurred into background static. Steam clouded the room. Water beat against tile. And it was just me—me and the space inside my own head I tried so hard to lock down.
I closed my eyes.
And he was there again.
Liam.
I imagined what he’d look like standing in the shower, water sliding over the curves of his shoulders, muscles taut from training, breath heavy from the heat. Droplets running down his chest, his abs, lower—tracing lines I wanted to follow with my hands, my mouth.
The thought hit me like a blow, sharp and hot. Too real.
Heat flooded through me, instant and undeniable. My cock stirred, thickening against my thigh.
Fuck. No.
My pulse kicked. I swallowed hard, trying to drown the image before it swallowed me, but it was too late. Blood rushed south, my body responding with brutal efficiency. I was getting hard—right here, surrounded by teammates, water streaming over bare skin.
Don’t. Not here. Not around them.
I turned, letting the water hit my back instead of my chest, angling myself toward the wall, hoping the spray and steam would hide what was happening. But my cock was already half-hard and climbing, pressing heavy and obvious against nothing, and panic crept up my spine.
Think of something else. Anything else.
My grandmother.
Okay—no, not my grandmother, that was weird and didn’t even work. Uh, taxes. Did I even pay taxes? My dad’s accountant handled that.
Shit. Organic chemistry. The Krebs cycle. Citric acid, acetyl-CoA, ATP synthesis—
Liam turning under the water, rivulets running down his back, over the curve of his ass, muscles flexing as he reached for soap. My cock gave another insistent throb.
No no no.
Baseball stats. I hate baseball. Perfect. The 1986 World Series, Bill Buckner, ground ball through the legs—
Then my hand reaching out, fingers tracing the line of his Liam’s stomach, following the water down. Wrapping around his cock, feeling the weight of it, the heat.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
Dead puppies. The DMV. That video of the guy getting his wisdom teeth out. Coach Eldridge in a Speedo—
Oh god, that made it worse somehow.
My cock was fully hard now, standing out from my body like a traitor, and I was out of options and out of time.
I couldn’t stay.
I reached for my towel, wrapping it around my waist in one practiced motion, keeping it tight enough that no one would notice the bulge straining against the fabric.
I kept my head down as I slipped between teammates, heart pounding like I’d sprinted an erg piece, every step making me hyper-aware of how hard I still was underneath.
Almost out.
Almost—
“Alex.”
I froze.
Braden stood by the bench near the doorway, arms crossed, still shirtless and damp from his shower. Water clung to the defined lines of his chest and shoulders. For a split second, my eyes traced the cut of his obliques before I forced them back up to his face.
Stop. Not him.
I hated this guy, but I guess it didn’t matter when I was horny.
His gaze flicked down and lingered for just a second on the towel at my waist before returning to my face. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You good?” he asked.
“Fine.” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, adjusting the towel, praying he couldn’t tell.
He studied me a second longer, like he was reading something I didn’t want anyone to see. Then he stepped closer—too close—so no one else would hear.
“I know about the race,” he whispered.
My blood cooled, arousal evaporating under a wave of cold dread. “What race?”
“The unsanctioned one.” His voice dropped lower. “You and Liam. Pretty bold move. I hope you enjoyed the win.”
I tried to swallow but my throat felt tight. He knew something. I’d told Marcus I won, but I didn’t tell him it was Liam. Plus, Marcus wouldn’t blow up my spot.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His smile widened just a fraction. “What would people think if they found out. Eldridge. The athletic board. Your father.”
The way he said your father made my jaw clench.
“Is that a threat?” I asked, keeping my voice level even though my pulse was hammering.
Braden shrugged, all casual menace. “Just saying... Your dad screwed mine out of a championship. Maybe... I return the favor.”
I held his gaze, refusing to look away first. This was his game—the same one his father played with mine back in the day. The rivalry I never asked for but inherited anyway.
“Good.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Then we understand each other. Just... be careful who you trust this year.”
He grabbed his clothes off the bench and walked past me toward the lockers, leaving me standing there—wet, flushed, and clutching my towel.
I made it back to my room and locked the door behind me, leaning against it like I’d just escaped something.
I wasn’t even that worried about Braden claiming he knew something.
Rumors spread fast around the boathouse, and he was probably just pretending he had more information than he did, trying to rattle me or get in my head before the race tomorrow.
I was worried about the way my body had betrayed me in front of a dozen teammates.
I sat on the edge of my bed and put my head in my hands.
This shouldn’t be so hard.
That’s what killed me most—the fact that it was hard. That in this day and age, with all the progress everyone talked about, with pride flags at corporate events and athletes coming out on Instagram, I still felt like I was choking on a secret that could ruin everything I’d worked for.
It wasn’t supposed to matter anymore. That’s what people said. Love is love. Be yourself. The world’s moved on.
But the world of elite rowing?
The world of old money and legacy admissions and fathers who rowed in the eighties?
That world moved slower. Or didn’t move at all.
I thought about the guys on the team. Most of them were decent. Progressive, even, in that casual liberal arts college way. They’d probably say they were allies if you asked.
But there was a difference between theoretical acceptance and having a legacy guy be that guy.
The gay one.
And even if they were fine with it—even if every single one of them was—there were scouts. Recruiters. Olympic coaches who remembered my father and expected his son to be cut from the same cloth.
I couldn’t afford to be a distraction. Couldn’t afford to be the story instead of the athlete.
So I stayed quiet. Kept my head down. Dated girls when it made sense, let rumors swirl about who I was hooking up with, played the part everyone expected.
And I hated it.
I hated that every time I looked at someone like Liam, every time my body responded the way it had in that shower, I had to calculate risk. Measure exposure. Weigh consequences.
I hated that I had to think about it at all.
I thought about Liam.
The way he’d looked at me in the gazebo.
The fact that he kissed me even though we were at work.
The way he didn’t seem to care about any of the rules I’d spent my whole life following.
Maybe that’s what drew me to him most. Not just his body or his defiance or the way he pushed back when everyone else bent.
It was that he made me want to do the same.
I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling, chest tight, throat aching with everything I couldn’t say out loud.
Just one more thing to carry.
One more weight in a boat already heavy with expectation.
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about how tired I was of holding it all.