Ever since last year, the guy had it out for me. Legacy kid—apparently our fathers had some kind of rivalry back in the day. I never asked my dad about it. Didn’t care. I outclassed Braden in everything. I’d been rowing longer, working harder, and his form was shit. The only thing he had going for him was that he was kind of hot in a cute way... at least I thought so.
Coach Eldridge’s voice floated from the office above. “Varsity group 2—off the dock in ten. Warm up in your singles.”
My stomach dropped. That was me. And I was in a single today. Not what I wanted to hear.
In a four or an eight, even a double, every stroke was shared. Every mistake got absorbed by rhythm and synchronicity. There was comfort in that. Safety. I liked moving as one body—not being alone with my errors.
I wheeled my boat down the sloped dock. The fiberglass shell felt light under my hands. Braden shoved off ahead of me. Mason followed.
I pushed away last.
Braden and Mason were already gliding downriver, warming up with easy, confident strokes. About fifteen other varsity guys were either on the river already or joining us.
I dipped my blades. Took a few light strokes. Followed.
My breath puffed white in the cold. The only sounds were the slide of seats and the soft splash of oars entering the water.
We paddled a few hundred meters downstream. Enough to let the river open up. Enough for my shoulders to loosen. Enough for the flutter in my chest to settle. Braden took a few aggressive bursts for no reason other than to show off.
We circled back toward the dock.
Eldridge raised the megaphone. His voice cut across the stillness.
“Alright, gentlemen. This morning’s pieces will help determine placements for the scrimmage with Riverside. I want clarity today. Power when I call for it. Discipline when you settle.”
My stomach tightened. A scrimmage this early in the season was unheard of. The first few weeks were stressful enough—erg tests, boat placements. Now he was using singles to evaluate us?
Perfect.
He adjusted his sunglasses even though the sun wasn’t up yet. “We’ll run staggered starts. Five-hundred-meter sprints. First group—Braden and Mason. Alex, you’ll chase. Row into position.”
Chasing meant I was supposed to stay behind them. Match their rhythm. React to their pace. Not pass them. They were the ones being evaluated. I was just the control variable.
Bullshit.
Eldridge knew I was better than both of them.
I moved into the start line a length behind them. Watched Braden square his blades with perfect arrogance. Mason settled beside him, shoulders loose, chill as usual.
Eldridge raised his hand.
“Ready—”
My hands tightened around the handles. My heart kicked into gear. I could feel every ounce of doubt pressing on my sternum.
“Go!”
Braden exploded off the line. Mason followed half a beat later—smooth, patient. I drove hard into my first ten strokes. Legs burning. Breath loud in my ears. The single rocked under the force of my start and my heart lurched.
That was the thing about rowing that most people didn’t understand. Every moment counted. No room for error. Every angle, every drive, even the recovery when the oar was out of the water—it all mattered.
I was off to a rocky start and it could mess with my whole sprint. Even though I wasn’t in the race, I still had to perform.
Coach was watching.
I took a deep breath. Steady. Settle. Don’t overthink it. Find the rhythm.
The boat leveled out. The river slid under me like silk. Braden held the lead. Mason shadowed him. I could feel myself inching closer, stroke by stroke, but the panic was still there—tight, clawing.
