“This weekend’s gonna be a good check-in,” Hale went on. “Kingswell’ll roll in like they’re God’s gift, and we’ll do what we always do—show up, work hard, and make ’em sweat a little.” His tone was easy, almost casual, but the room leaned in anyway.
He took another sip of coffee. “To figure out lineups, varsity’s running a 2k today. Novice row with us but you’ll test tomorrow. All lineups will be posted in a few days.”
He smiled at the relief that swept across the freshman group.
“Nothing dramatic. Just a test to see where everyone’s at. No excuses about being rusty. You give me whatever you’ve got in the tank.”
My stomach tightened. Erg tests. Today.
This was it—day one, chance one. Hale would see my split, my stamina, my discipline. I wanted—needed—to prove I deserved to run some single races this year.
Last year, I was stuck on the first freshman eight. It was the fastest freshman boat, but I hated it because they were holding me back.
Hale paced a few steps.
“Look, I know we’re not fancy. We’re not Kingswell. Nobody here’s rowing for their daddy’s legacy.” He shrugged. “We row because we love it. Because we’re stubborn. Because it makes us better.”
His eyes drifted across the team and landed on me for a beat—it steadied something in me.
“So warm up easy,” Hale said, lifting his mug in a half-toast. “Test in twenty. And hey—don’t puke on the floor.”
The room cracked up. Even I smiled.
Jace stood and stretched his shoulders. “You ready, Moore?” he asked.
“I have to be,” I said.
Hale walked past, giving my shoulder a light tap that somehow meant everything.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just trust your work.”
And yeah. That landed exactly where it should’ve. I was going to prove it.
We lined the ergs up in three crooked rows. Flywheels hummed as the team warmed up. The front row was all heavy hitters—Jace dead center, with the rest of the seniors. Tyler and I were in the second row with some varsity juniors and sophomores.
Behind us, a cluster of freshmen whispered to each other like they were about to walk into a firing squad. I remembered this day last year—my first erg test, when I’d pushed so hard I threw up.
Coach Hale had just looked at me and said, “Good. Now you know where the line is.”
Coach Hale moved between the rows with his coffee mug. “Alright, boys,” he called, voice relaxed but carrying. “Two minutes to start. Don’t overthink it.”
My stomach churned. Stats homework, English readings, Anatomy and Physiology class, everything I had due next week—none of it mattered right now.
All that mattered was this 2k. This chance. This one moment to show Hale I wasn’t just hanging on by grit and wishful thinking. I was the real deal. I was on his level.
Tyler leaned close. “Ready to suffer?”
“If this is suffering, then I’m a masochist.”
He laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
Remy stepped up to the front like he always did, small and sharp and somehow louder than the whole room without raising his voice. Seeing him there reminded me of last year, when he coxed our freshman eight and turned a boat full of terrified rookies into Riverside’s fastest crew. I could still see him up in the stern, dark skin shining with sweat, eyes locked on the line.
We were down half a length with five hundred to go, guys already dying on the oars, and every other coxswain on the river yelling the same recycled garbage: “Sit up! Lengthen! Legs!”
But Remy? He went quiet for three whole strokes—dead silent—like he was listening to the boat breathe. Then he leaned into the mic and said, calm as a surgeon: “This is exactly where they break. We hit them now.”
And we did.
