Chapter 1: Liam
I was back in Ashford, back at Riverside State University.
Sophomore year hadn’t officially started, but I was already slipping my single scull into the water at the University boathouse docks.
It was still dark this early in the morning, but the sun was moments away from popping up over the horizon. It was my favorite time of day—quiet, just me, the darkness, and the river.
On the other side of the river, Kingswell University perched on a hill like it owned the whole damn town. Old grey stone buildings, manicured lawns, the whole place humming with privilege.
I tried not to look at it any longer than I had to. This year was about me, not Alex Harrington.
I situated myself in my single, pushed off the dock with my fingertips, and drifted free. The current tugged me sideways.
Coach Hale always said you could tell how a season was going to go by the first stroke you took in the fall. I had to make it a good one—the entire season was riding on it, apparently.
That was a lot of pressure for the first stroke, and I could feel it building in my chest. I took a deep breath and let it out. I gripped my oars, set my heels, leaned forward, and gave my first pull.
WHOOSH.
Solid. Not good, not bad—just solid.
I cascaded down the river with ease, settled into an easy steady-state rhythm—legs, body, arms; arms, body, legs. The oars sliced into the river on the catch. The river woke up with me. Mist rose in thin sheets. My muscles warmed until my shoulders loosened and the burn in my quads settled into the good ache.
This was the first time I’d been on the river since last year’s regatta with Kingswell. We lost to them by three seats in the freshman eight boat. I could still feel the humiliation burn under my skin, still see the look Alex shot me when we crossed the finish line.
Losing to Alex was devastating, but that loss wasn’t happening again this year.
This year, I didn’t need my teammates holding me back. I needed a single. One boat. One seat. A place where I could prove myself as a rower.
Halfway to the first bend, I noticed motion across the river.
Another single.
Someone else insane enough to train before the season started at 5 AM.
Kingswell colors, obviously.
I kept watching the other shell out of the corner of my eye as I rowed.
Long, efficient strokes. Good ratio. Steady acceleration. The guy was controlled, almost mechanical. That narrowed it down to one person.
Please… not him.
I wasn’t ready to see his face this early in the season, let alone this early in the morning.
I leaned harder on the drive, pulling my shell closer to the center of the river. The Kingswell boat drew even with me as we rounded the bend, still on the far side but unmistakable now.
Blond hair. Tall, muscular, perfect posture. My stomach dropped.
Fuck. It’s him. Alex Harrington.
He hadn’t seen me yet, but I saw him. And even though it pissed me off, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him—stronger shoulders, broader chest, but the same controlled, effortless technique. I hated how good he was.
My chest tightened. Anger. Sharp and familiar.
Alex was the one who cut me off two summers ago, the one who chose pride and fear over whatever the hell we almost had. Something stupid and reckless and doomed, but what we had was real.
And he gave up on it.
