Chapter 16 Alex
I stood on the Kingswell dock in my team jacket, trying to stay warm. The water looked gray under the cloudy sky, wind cutting right through me. The water was choppy—it was going to be a tough day.
Across the river, Riverside’s bleachers were already filling up—mismatched hoodies, homemade signs, someone’s speaker blasting music loud enough to rattle across the water.
Our side was quieter. More composed.
Parents in coordinated fleece, alumni with coffee cups and tight smiles. Everyone looked perfectly prepared just in case Ethan flipped his camera on him. Wouldn’t want to end up on some social media feed looking imperfect.
I barely slept last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Liam’s face from last night. The way he’d looked at me when he showed me that video—two shells cutting through water, unsanctioned, reckless, damning. The way his voice had gone flat when I reached for him.
Don’t touch me.
And then he walked away. Shoulders tight, hood up, like I was something dangerous he needed distance from.
We’ll deal with the video at some point.
That’s what I’d said. Like it was a minor inconvenience. Like someone out there didn’t have footage that could end both our careers.
I didn’t know who sent it. I didn’t know what they wanted. And the not-knowing was killing me.
“Hey.” Marcus appeared beside me, already in his racing uni, Collins trailing behind “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Seriously.” He squinted at me. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Enough.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” He crossed his arms, watching the Riverside dock across the water. “Remember, it’s just one race.”
I stared across the grey water, lost in my own mind.
“Did you freeze?” Marcus asked.
I turned to Marcus, I could see his nipples standing up through the thin fabric of his uni. “I’m fine.”
He nodded toward the lineup board near the boathouse entrance. “Did you see? You’re last.”
“What?”
“Singles. You and Moore. Last race of the day.”
My stomach dropped. Last meant hours of waiting. Hours of watching. Hours of my brain spiraling through every worst-case scenario while that video hung over me like a guillotine.
“Great,” I said.
“Dude. You gotta relax. You’re acting like you’re on trial for murder.”
Before I could respond, a whistle cut through the air. The first race was lining up.
Freshman eights.
I moved closer to the water’s edge, watching as the two shells glided into position.
Kingswell’s boat was pristine—navy and gold catching what little light broke through the clouds.
Riverside’s was worn, the burgundy paint faded in places, but their freshman squad looked hungry. Lean and coiled and ready.
The starting official raised the flag.
“Ready.”
Silence fell. Even the Riverside crowd went quiet.
“Row.”
Both boats exploded off the line.
For the first twenty strokes, they were even. Blades flashing, water churning white, and the muscles of sixteen guys propelling the thin shells across the water. Our coxwain was yelling like he was trying to inspire a herd of wild animals.
But the coxwain for Riverside, same guy from last year, was more like a magician conjuring a spell, his face stern and focused, words rhythmic and quiet.
Kingswell’s technique was sloppy but the power was there. Completely wrong for a day like this… they were crabbing, their oars weren’t entering the water at the right angle. Some were going to deep and others not enough. The rhythm was off.
But Riverside was moving, their stroke rate climbed faster than ours.
“We’re fucked,” Marcus said.
“I don’t man. Riverside might burn out.”
We continued to watch.
Come on. Come on.
Riverside didn’t burn out.
At the five-hundred-meter mark, Riverside pulled ahead by half a length. Their coxswain’s voice intensified and carried across the water—sharp, relentless—those boys were under his spell.
The Kingswell boat stuttered, our bow four kept washing out in the chop, and the gap widened.
“Come on,” someone muttered behind me. “Tighten it up.”
They didn’t tighten it up.
By the thousand-meter mark, Riverside had pulled two seats ahead. By fifteen hundred, it was three seats. They were locked in.
Meanwhile, Kingswell’s boat was falling apart.
I could see it happening in real time and our freshman coxswain’s voice went shrill, screaming at them to pull harder, faster, tighter.
“That’s not the way to do it,” I said.
You don’t yell louder when a boat’s breaking. You bring them back. You reset. You find the rhythm again.
Five seats ahead now.
“It’s fucking over,” Marcus said, his voice flat.
Collins shook his head, eyes locked on the Riverside boat. “It’s their coxswain.”
“What about him?”
“How’d he pull them together like that in one week?” Collins’s voice carried something I didn’t expect—respect. “Fucking crazy.”
By the time they crossed the finish line, Riverside had won by seven seats.
The Riverside bleachers erupted. Air horns, screaming, students rushing the dock to mob their freshmen as they paddled in. The energy was electric, chaotic, alive. Meanwhile, Kingswell’s boat drifted toward our dock in silence, heads down, blades dragging.
Seven seats. In a freshman race. Against Kingswell.
“Holy shit,” Collins said.
Marcus’s jaw had gone tight. “Fluke.”
“Come on let’s go warm up,” Collins said to Marcus.
The two of them headed down the dock.
I watched Riverside’s crew climb out of their shell, watched their coach—Hale, I assumed—pull each of them into a quick embrace. No stiff handshakes. No clinical nods. Just genuine, unfiltered pride.
This wasn’t a fluke. This was a program that was building something that we could never understand.
And if their freshmen could do that to us... what would Liam do to me?
My eyes drifted down the dock and I found him. Liam stood near the Riverside boathouse, arms crossed, watching his freshmen celebrate. He wasn’t cheering or shouting. He just stood there, still as stone, radiating pride.
Then, as if he felt me looking, his head turned.
Our eyes met across the river.
The distance between us felt like nothing. Like I could reach out and touch him if I just—
He looked away first. Turned his back and disappeared into the boathouse.
My chest ached.
“Alex.”
I turned. Derek stood beside me on the riverbank, the wind ruffling his hair. He’d been watching me stare down the course.
“You good?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
He gave a quiet exhale, the kind that said, I’ve been here before, don’t bullshit me.
“I don’t know the legacy stuff you deal with, that’s not my world.” His eyes stayed on the water, steady. “But I do know pressure. The kind where one bad day feels like it proves everything people think they know about you.”
That hit deeper than I wanted it to.
He continued, “Once you’re on the water? None of that matters. Just the boat under you and the line you hold. That’s the only thing you get to decide today.”
My throat tightened.
This was why I admired him. Derek didn’t posture or pretend. He didn’t have the privilege of image to hide behind. He’d built his confidence from the ground up.
He looked at me. “Get your head in your shell. Especially with who you’re lining up against.”
He didn’t say Liam’s name, but I could feel it in my chest. Derek gave my shoulder one firm, grounding squeeze, then headed toward the docks.
The officials were already setting up for the next race. JV fours. Then varsity pairs. Then Marcus’s doubles. Then more races I’d have to sit through, each one tightening the knot in my stomach.
And at the end of it all—Me and Liam.
I tried to summon it. That fire I’d felt the other day when I’d soared past Mason and Braden.
The certainty.
The power.
I’d beaten Liam before. I could do it again.
But when I reached for it, there was nothing there.
Just cold. Just the video hanging over me like a blade. Just the memory of his voice—Don’t touch me—and him walking away. And for a moment, I felt what he must of felt when we ended it that summer at Brackett Lake.
I closed my eyes, letting the cold wind cut across my face.
A few hours to go.
And I couldn’t afford to crack.