Before
Shae
SHAE STRIPPED OFF HER splash jacket as she headed toward her crew, stretching on the grass by the water, preparing for the next regatta. She ran the pads of her fingers against her bare palm. Her hands were tender, but no blisters.
“Hey, girl,” Amber said from the ground as she stretched. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Shae jumped in place, shaking out her legs. They were still heavy from this morning's race.
They’d won against Northfield High, but this next race was bigger.
This was the race they would go head-to-head with Brookfield Academy, their toughest competitor currently on the water.
Last year, Brookfield took the race by a quarter of a length.
This year would be different. Hillcrest was currently undefeated, and she was Stroke Seat now, with the best Coxswain she could ask for, Amber.
They’d been dreaming of being in this position for years, and here they were.
Their Coach had put together a new strategy for this regatta that would put them head-to-head with Brookfield, and she would fight to the death to push through the line.
Gray water stretched wide beneath the pale October sky.
The sun wasn’t out today, but neither was the wind, which made for perfect conditions.
Everyone’s families were all lined up by the shoreline, hunched in their folding chairs, clutching thermoses.
Shae spotted Lennon and Em seated next to her parents.
Em noticed her looking and waved over, excitedly.
She was all bundled up in her coat and knit hat, and seeing her warmed Shae from the inside out.
“Alright, Crew, bring it in. Coach Bringham hollered. “Time to warm up. We win clean today. Last year, you panicked at the five hundred. Not today. They’re gonna go hard off the line, let them. We aren’t rowing anyone else’s race but ours. Trust your base, trust your stroke.”
Coach Bringham cast her eyes toward the edge of the water, where two men stood, one sporting a blue Columbia University windbreaker, a clipboard tucked underneath his arm: clearly not a parent of any crew member.
“We’ve got some scouts here today from Columbia, so I want you all on your best.” Coach Bringham drew her attention to Shae, “I know you’ve been waiting on this one, Hemingway.”
The crew carried their shell to the docks, the hull pressing into her shoulder. The metal frame of the dock creaked beneath them, the water wafting up, a mixture of algae and earth. They lowered the shell onto the slings.
“Ready to flip,” Amber called. “Up, over.”
They hauled the boat around and carefully slid it toward the edge of the dock, lowering it down until the hull broke the surface of the water.
The hollow shell knocked softly against the frame of the dock, the water lapping at the sides.
They held the boat steady as Amber stepped in, followed by the rest of the crew.
Shae placed her hand on the rigger and lowered herself down, locking in and squaring up her blade.
They’d drawn the same lane as last year when they lost to Brookfield, Lane four. Across the water, she could see their crew. Navy uniforms, sharp blades flashing.
“Don’t look at them,” Amber said from the coxswain seat, already clipped into the mic. “They don’t matter.”
Shae didn’t respond; she didn’t need to. As stroke seat, her back faced the course ahead. The boat would follow her rhythm. All eight bodies moved as one to her beat. It was a type of control that often felt fragile in her hands.
The loudspeakers crackled, and the announcer called overhead.
“Alright, folks. We are set for the Varsity Girls Eight Final here at the Boston Fall Invitational. Conditions remain flat with a very light crosswind; nothing to worry about there. Should make for a quick race.” He shuffled the papers in his hand.
“In Lane One, Newton South. Lane Two, St. Andrews.
Lane Three, we got Brookfield Academy—last year's champion in this event.
Lane Four, Hillcrest Collegiate, looking to avenge last year's narrow finish.
Lane Five, Phillips Academy Andover. And, last but not least, Lane Six, Wellesley High School.
Keep an eye on Hillcrest's stroke seat—Senior Shae Hemingway—who’s been putting together a strong fall campaign.
The crew rowed toward the docks. Shae peered back over toward the shore. Em stood, her hands cupped around her mouth, talking back and forth with Lennon. Even from this distance, Shae could feel her watching.
“Crews are approaching the stake boats. Coxswains, please signal when ready. All crews are locked in.” There was a brief pause, then the announcer started up again. “This should be a tight one between Brookfield and Hillcrest. Under starter's orders,” the announcer called.
Shae slid forward on the track, and everything went silent around her.
Amber peered over the crew, heat in her eyes, “This is ours. Shae, set it and don’t look back.” She clapped her hand against her knee. “Alright, girls. Trust your base. Eyes on the boat.”
Shae focused ahead, tightening her grip on the oar.
Amber’s voice cut through her headset. “Sit ready.”
The boat stilled. Eight oars hovered in anticipation above the water’s skin.
“Attention...”
The horn shattered the quiet.
“Legs!” Amber called out.
The blades slammed down together, water exploding up, white at their sides. The first ten strokes were violent. Digging in, full power. Shae drove through her heels, back swinging, arms finishing clean. The boat surged forward, hull slicing cleanly through the chop.
“Up two seats!” Amber shouted. “Settle in two!”
Shae lowered the stroke rate a hair, the boat finding its swing. The rival shell edged into her peripheral vision—navy blades cutting in near-perfect time.
“Lengthen, Shae,” Amber called.
Shae inhaled through her nose, her exhale drawing out through clenched teeth. They were only midway through, and she could already feel the burn in her quads. Then her lungs tightened. Her hands sweating inside her grips.
Amber’s voice overpowered the noise of the crowd.
“Halfway! You’re on their shoulder! Stay long!
Ten more. That’s one. Fight. Two. Breathe.
Three. Even with Newton. Four, Pull. Five.
Sitting two seats down with Bridgefield.
Six. Take ‘em. Seven. Let ‘em know. Eight. Walk it. Nine, fight for it. Ten.”
Shae thought of last year—the split second where their timing faltered. The way Brookfield had edged ahead. The nauseating silence that followed their win.
Not today.
She reached longer at the catch. Drove harder through her heels. Forced the rhythm deeper, cleaner.
The boat responded, and they inched forward.
“Power ten!” Amber’s voice cracked with urgency. “This is it!”
“Ten. Lock in. Nine. Attack. Eight. Together. Seven. Let’s go. Six. Blades in. Five. Dig in! Four. Let’s go, ladies! Three. Press! Two. One. Blades in girls, squeeze. Squeeze! Five more.” She called.
“One. Pull! Two. Drive it home! Three. Almost there, girls. Four. Five. We’re walking. That’s a seat. Drive. Keep walking, we’re moving through them.”
Shae locked in and pulled harder. The boat surged for- ward, pulling ahead by another half a seat.
“Five hundred left!” Amber yelled. “They’re moving! Match them! Come on, we’re walking again. We’ve got a chance here. Pull. Pull. Pull.”
Brookfield pushed forward again, attempting a sprint. Shae felt the water shift and the pressure change beneath their oars. Panic flickered in the Newtons' boat behind them. She had a choice: she could either react or lead.
“Now,” she said—barely audible, but the girls heard it.
She raised the stroke rate a hair. Not frantic enough to cut in on their time but still driving it. Their blades hit together in a timed rhythm, clean and precise. Shae got a surge of energy. Three hundred meters passed. Two hundred.
Her legs were searing with the burn of the push. Her arms were almost numb. But she was focused; she wanted this. She needed it.
“Come on, Seniors. Last twenty! How bad do you want it? There is no next year. This is yours, take it.” Amber screamed.
Twenty strokes would decide everything. Shae gave it everything she had. Pushing back every ounce of restraint and fighting. Her lungs, burning with every breath.
The horn sounded again, and Shae hardly recognized that they’d passed the finish line. Didn’t hear Amber shouting.
“Paddle it out. Shae, PADDLE.”
Shae decelerated, silence dropping like a curtain inside the boat. For a second, no one knew whose win it was.
Then the announcer’s voice cracked through the speakers:
“Lane four… by a quarter of a length… takes the win!”
The shoreline erupted.
“That’s us,” Amber shouted. The team erupted into screams, splashing up water from the sides of the boat at each other. One girl laughed hysterically, and another burst into tears. But Shae couldn’t form a scream or words yet.
Shae bent forward over her knees, gasping, her forehead nearly touching the handle in her hands. She wanted to wretch. Everything around her, blurring.
They pulled up to the dock, and Coach Brigham and another gentleman reached for the shell.
Shae’s crew collapsed into each other, breaths coming out heavy.
Laughter, filling each other up. She stepped forward on unsteady legs, spotting her family and Em waiting for her at the edge of the shoreline, closer to the doc.
“Yes, baby. You did it.” Her dad called, rushing toward her and throwing his arms around her.
“Well, that was something.” Her mom added.
“Sure was,” Lennon said, squeezing her.
“Thanks, guys. That was the toughest fucking race I’ve ever completed.” She flashed a smirk over at her parents.
“You were unbelievable!” Em said, breathless herself. Like she’d been in that boat pulling with them. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Shae studied her face. Her dimples peeked out with every grin, her face full of pride.
She looked at Shae like she was actually someone.
It made Shae feel invisible. Like she could grab Em by the hand and lead her behind the boathouse, press her against the wall, and kiss her endlessly.
She didn’t know if Em would want that, but it was all she ever thought of anymore when she was around her. Wanting to kiss her, be closer to her.
Before she could say more, her coach appeared at her shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt here. Shae,” she said, barely containing her grin. “Columbia’s assistant coach wants to speak with you.”
The noise around them faded slightly.
Em’s expression shifted, a look of excitement on her face. She squeezed her shoulders together, raising crossed fingers. “New York,” She mouthed.
Shae peered back at the water. At the lane where they’d won and thought of the path stretching out before her.
In front of her stood her opportunity to be in a new city, where Em would be too.
A warmth rose in her chest at the thought.
But somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought of cobble-stoned streets and gelato, and taking photos of the Colosseum, and an entirely different kind of current pulled at her.
She tipped her lip up hesitantly at Em and treaded forward with her coach.