Even Marcus, insufferable as he was, lived like himself.
Me?
I was the mask my father and his money taught me to wear.
Chapter 5: Liam
When I walked into the Riverside boathouse, I was hit with a familiar smell. I’m pretty sure it was mildew and sweat, but I liked to think it was just the smell of hard work and impending victory.
Nothing about our boathouse was pretty, but it was real.
The main gym had several rows of ergs, a meeting area with benches, and some cycles overlooking the rowing tank below. We were one of the few programs lucky enough to have one—secured decades ago by a legendary coach who'd leveraged a championship season into enough clout with the administration to get the funding.
We hadn't come close to that kind of success since.
The tank stretched out like a narrow pool, maybe sixty feet long and eight feet wide, with a mechanical current system that simulated river conditions. Rowers could practice their technique year-round without dealing with weather, ice, or the chaos of an actual waterway.
Coaches loved it because they could stand right beside you, dissecting every stroke without chasing you in a launch. Mostof us hated it for the same reason—nowhere to hide when your form went to shit.
The letters RSU stretched across the back wall in peeling white and burgundy paint. Right next to that was the River Jack, a river worker, glaring down at us—broad-shouldered, rough-edged, the kind of guy who’d climb out of the river just to tell you to row harder.
Most of the team was there, chattering away. It felt damn good to be walking in as a varsity sophomore. Last year burned—everyone calling me a novice, even though I was better than half of varsity.
Tyler was the first to spot me. He lounged across an erg with his legs splayed out.
“Moore! You look like you slept in your hoodie again.”
“I did.” I dropped my bag by the wall. “It’s called efficiency.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, grinning. “Or depression.”
“What’s there to be depressed about?”
“5 AM wake ups, preseason assessments, and this random-ass scrimmage.”
That earned a laugh from the corner, where Jace Morales—our senior captain—was taping up his hands. Jace was the only guy on the team I looked up to. Scholarship kid like me. Built like a middle linebacker but with a sculler’s precision. He’d made a U23 National development boat last summer and hadn’t bragged about it once.
He nodded at me. “You ready for hell week?”
“My life is hell,” I said.
“That’s the spirit,” Jace replied, deadpan. “Suffer now, cry later.”
Tyler pointed at him. “Inspirational. Put that on a pillow.”
Before I could fire back, the office door pushed open with a soft thump. Everyone found a seat. The freshmen were at the benches, backs straight, eyes wide.
Coach Hale was in his late forties with some grey sticking through his disheveled dark brown hair. He wore dark grey athletic pants and an RSU hoodie. We all respected Hale because he was the real deal.
He was still in shape and still rowed his single scull. He won nationals multiple times and won silver in the 1996 Olympics. We were lucky to have him—the guy was a legend. He rowed more than all of us combined. So it was smart to pay attention—at least that was how I looked at it.
“Alright, guys. Eyes up for a second,” Hale said, then sipped his coffee.
I sat on the erg next to Tyler.
“I’m guessing you’ve heard about the scrimmage.” A couple groans, a couple snickers. “News travels fast when you guys live on social media. Not worth pretending it’s a secret.”
Tyler snorted, and Hale shot him a mild look—more amused than annoyed.
