My chain jerked to a stop. Jace was the only one who finished before me. Then Tyler dropped his handle. A chorus of collapsing bodies followed—guys sliding off ergs, hands on heads. Someone dry-heaved into a trash can.
“There we go, motherfuckers! Let’s get this season started!” Remy howled.
I folded forward, chest heaving, eyes burning.
Hale clapped once. “Alright. Breathe, boys. I’ll call out your times in a minute.”
Soon he read the results one by one, working down the rows. Guys barely reacted, too dead to care. When he got to me, he tapped the board with his pen.
“Moore—new personal best. Nice work.”
A warmth hit my chest hard enough to sting. I didn’t smile—I couldn’t—but my whole body hummed with something raw and relieved.
Tyler elbowed me. “Dude. Sick time.”
“Thanks,” I panted.
When Hale dismissed us, Jace limped over with a towel around his neck.
“Nice time,” he said, that calm captain vibe radiating off him. “You’re in striking distance now.”
“Of what?” I asked.
He grinned. “Scouts. If you keep this up, Hale’s gonna push your name forward this season.”
My heart kicked so hard I felt it in my throat.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Seriously. That’s how it happened to me.” Jace clapped my shoulder. “Don’t waste it.”
Then he walked off, leaving my pulse racing harder than it had during the test.
Maybe this year could be something. And yeah... a stupid, traitorous part of me thought, maybe I can learn something from Alex.
But I shut that down fast. Not going there. No thanks.
Chapter 6: Alex
I walked down the river path to the boathouse, gravel crunching under my feet. Preseason testing had begun. This morning would determine our lineups for the scrimmage with Riverside. I wasn’t nervous, but I could feel the pressure in my chest. The normal pressure.
I walked down the dock, watching the water, trying to steady my breath.
Behind me, the boathouse glowed. The lower bay opened straight onto the water. Racks of shells lined up in perfect rows, each one spotless and gleaming. The whole place felt designed to impress donors.
“Morning, Harrington.”
Mason Liu stepped inside, carrying his oars over one shoulder. He ran his hand through his short black hair.
“Didn’t think you’d beat me here,” he said.
I forced a smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Mason was chill, nothing spectacular, but he was a good guy to have on a four or an eight. Solid rower and no drama. I liked Mason.
Further down the bay, Braden Lockwood stood six-foot-two with crew-cut brown hair, blue-grey eyes that carried practiced prep-school cool, and the wiry-powerful build of someone who’d been told his entire life he was destined to be Kingswell’s future.
He was the exact opposite of Mason.
