Chapter 15 Liam
I woke to weak sunlight slicing across the ceiling. For once, Noah stirred at the same time I did. He rubbed his eyes and looked over at me.
When he noticed me looking back, his face softened. “Hey. You okay? I was... worried. You didn’t come in before I knocked out.”
Guilt crawled up my spine. “Yeah. Sorry. Last night was a lot.”
“It's okay… I probably pushed too hard.”
As I sat up in my bed the look on Alex’s face last night flashed through my mind. It was like he wanted something from me and it made my stomach feel strange. I pushed the image away and turned to Noah.
“You were right. About the repression thing. I’m not ready to unpack that yet, but... yeah.”
Saying it out loud felt like dropping a weight I’d been pretending I wasn’t carrying.
Noah just nodded. “Thanks for saying that.”
I sat up straighter. “There’s something else. I... saw Alex last night.”
Noah grabbed his glasses and put them on. “Wait—what?”
“And I showed him the video.” I swallowed. “He’s seen it now.”
“Oh shit.” Noah pushed himself up on his bed. “How’d he take it?”
I could still feel the heat of Alex standing too close, could still see the look on his face when the footage ended.
“It messed him up.”
“Well, yeah…” Noah said, stretching his arms over his head.
“Yeah.” I dragged a hand through my hair. “Today’s gonna be... intense.”
He nodded. “Considering you guys are recreating the same thing today... yeah.”
That hit me in the chest and Noah could tell.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
I sighed. “It’s okay.”
Noah studied me for a moment.
“Look... I know you don’t want to talk about all of it. But you don’t have to pretend you’re fine just because you’re racing him. Anyone would be rattled.”
“I’m not rattled,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re repressing.”
I glared. Then stopped. He was right.
“Good,” he said, leaning back. “Because whether it’s rivalry, repression, or something else? You two row like you’re plugged into the same outlet.”
Just the idea of me and Alex being something else or sharing the same outlet—whatever that meant—made me feel happy.
“Shut up," I said with a smirk.
He grinned. “Hey, I’m just calling plays as I see them. But don’t worry, you’re going to win. I can feel it.”
I laughed and nodded my head. Today was going to be complicated, but at least I had a Noah, everyone should have a Noah.
The boathouse hummed with that pre-race energy.
Someone had dragged the ergs into rows facing the bay doors, and cold river air poured through, making the hair on my arms stand up. The floor vibrated with flywheel noise as guys trickled in—dropping bags, stretching, cracking jokes over the machine clatter.
Tyler spotted me first. “C’mon, man. Wake those legs up.” He jerked his chin toward an open erg between him and Sam.
I dropped my bag, sat down, set my feet, tightened the straps, and pulled the first warm-up strokes. Light at first. Arms only. Then back. Then legs, slow and deliberate, easing my body into rhythm even though my chest still felt tight.
Tyler pulled hard beside me. “You look like a ghost.”
“Dude, I just woke up.”
“Gotta keep you humble.”
Sam leaned forward on his recovery, squinting at me. “Nah. He’s got that look. Someone’s in his head.”
“Shut up,” I said. They were idiots, but the kind that grounded me.
The room filled with heat and sound. Sweat gathered at my temples. My legs loosened with each stroke, my shoulders unfurling.
Last week I muscled everything. Rowed angry. And Alex still beat me. By inches. Heat snapped through my chest. I pulled harder.
“Easy, killer,” Tyler said, laughing. “We’re warming up, not reenacting Thermopylae.”
I didn’t slow right away. But then I did. Let the flywheel settle. My breathing evened out. By the time I finished my sequence and stood, my legs felt steadier. My brain clearer. Not clean, but clearer.
Then Hale stepped in, the room shifted and settled.
“Morning,” he said, scanning us. “Before you head out, I want you to hear something.”
He rested a hand against the nearest locker. “Kingswell and Riverside look different on paper. They’ve got new ergs. State-of-the-art shells. And they probably hydrate with imported volcanic water from glass bottles.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“But once you’re on the water, none of that matters.” Hale tapped his chest. “What matters is efficiency. Everyone at this level is strong. Everyone trains hard. The separator isn’t muscle. It’s movement. It’s how cleanly you convert power into run.”
He walked a few steps, hands behind his back.
“Look at the river today. Chop everywhere. Wind coming in crosswise. Conditions like that punish sloppy technique. But they reward crews who stay long and balanced. Who keep their blades low. Who work with the water.”
The room quieted.
“In choppy water, you don’t fight the river. You lift your hands just enough to clear the peaks, soften your knees so your bow doesn’t slap, time your catches between waves, not into them.”
He looked around. “Kingswell may have better toys. But they row the same water. They face the same chop.”
My chest tightened. Efficiency wasn’t my thing. It was Alex’s thing. But if I wanted to win, then... it needed to be my thing. I just hoped that when we got to the starting line, he’d be distracted by the video from last night.
Hale nodded once. “You’re ready. Go row like it.”
Later in the locker room, I was about to put my socks on when Remy appeared beside me before I could pull them on.
“What’s up, man? You ready for today?”
He shrugged. “I think Varsity will do great. Freshmen? They might surprise people.”
“You were whipping them into shape the other day. Their catches looked sharp.”
“Yeah, they’re getting there.” Remy crossed his arms. “The Freshmen don’t know who they are yet. Don’t know their teammates, don’t trust the calls.”
He paused.
“But once they settle into their seats and stop second-guessing? They’ll be dangerous.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.”
He studied me for a second, then his expression shifted.
“You’ve got that look again,” he said.
I didn’t look up. “What look?”
“The one you had last year. Freshman Eight. When we crossed the line three seats behind Kingswell and you stared at their boat like you wanted to burn it down.” He paused. “Except you weren’t looking at the boat. You were looking at their bow seat.”
My hands stopped moving.
“I’m a coxswain, Moore. I see everything. It’s my job.” His voice stayed low, careful. “And I saw the way you watched him during the medal ceremony. The way you couldn’t decide if you wanted to fight him or—“
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I meant.
Remy held up his hands. “I’m not here to give you shit. I’m here because you’re about to race against him again, and you’re sitting here like you’re preparing for your own execution.”
Something tight coiled in my chest.
He crouched down so I had to look at him. “Listen. I know what it’s like when someone gets in your head. When you can’t separate wanting to beat them from just... wanting them.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I don’t—”
“Yeah, you do. And that’s okay.” His expression softened. “But you need to pick one for the next two thousand meters. You can’t row angry and distracted. So choose. Hate him or want him. I don’t care... but commit to one so you can row.”
I stared at him. My throat felt tight. How did he—but I knew how. Remy was gay and out, which came with the ability to spot this shit from a mile away.
“What do I want?” I asked, my voice barely there.
Remy smiled, sad and knowing. “That’s the thing you’re afraid to say out loud. But you don’t have to say it to me. You just have to know it yourself.”
He stood. “Now go kick his ass. Or don’t. But either way, stop letting him live rent-free in your head.”
I watched him walk away, his small frame disappearing between the rows of lockers.
Hate him or want him.
The words sat in my chest like a stone. I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the scuffed tile floor.
I didn’t want Alex Harrington. I wanted to beat him. There was a difference.
There had to be.
I closed my eyes and pictured it: my blade cutting clean through the water, my shell pulling ahead of his, the look on his face when he realized he couldn’t catch me. That perfect, polished composure cracking as I crossed the line first.
That’s what I wanted.
The win.
Not him. Never him again.
I stood, slamming my locker shut harder than necessary. The metal clang rang through the room.
Two thousand meters.
That’s all this was.
Two thousand meters to prove that whatever happened at Brackett Lake didn’t matter anymore. That he didn’t matter.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
Time to make the golden boy bleed.