“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good.” He nodded toward the door. “Go train.”
When I stepped back into the hallway, the buzz around the lineup sheet had died down. The rush of adrenaline had, too. I walked past the erg room window, saw the sunlight slanting across the machines, and felt something inside me pull toward that familiar rhythm.
I slipped inside.
The room was empty. I picked a machine, tightened the footplates, and settled into the seat. The handle felt cool against my palms.
I took a deep breath and I rowed.
The first few strokes came slow, deliberate—catch, drive, finish, release—each movement settling deeper into my body. I focused on the pressure through my legs, the alignment of my hips, the swing of my shoulders.
Then I saw myself on the river with Alex during our unsanctioned race.
Panic edged up my spine, fast and hot. I shoved it down and drove through the next stroke, letting the rhythm settle me.
It’s going to be fine.
I heard Hale’s voice.But it takes control. Composure.
I took a deep breath. I let the thoughts fighting for space in my head float away until only motion remained.
I pushed harder.
The flywheel answered with a satisfying rush. My heart hit a steady rhythm, sweat warming my back. The split numbers dropped, not dramatically, but consistent—proof of order rather than chaos.
Proof of control instead of the frantic urgency I usually carried. I could do this.
I stayed in that rhythm until the timer beeped. Not a personal best, but good.
I wiped my forehead with the edge of my shirt and let my breathing slow, the moment settling into me like a promise.
Maybe Hale was right. Maybe I had more than just strength. Maybe I was future captain if I learned how to stop letting my emotions drive the boat.
As I grabbed my water bottle from the floor, one freshmen, Evan, slipped into the gym. He had sharp features with inky black hair, warm brown eyes, and a single freckle on his cheek.
“Oh—sorry,” he said when he saw me. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“You’re good.” I couldn’t lie to myself—he was cute. The kind of face I’d notice even if I didn’t want to. But he wasn’t Alex. No one was. I pushed the thought away.
He hesitated, shifting his weight like he wanted to say something and wasn’t sure he was allowed. “Hey, uh… Coach Hale said I need to work on my catch angle. Do you… ever mess that up?”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “All the time.”
Evan blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “So you know what the catch is?”
“I mean—yeah, of course. It’s right before the blade goes in the water.”
“Technically, yeah,” I said. “But it’s more than just dunking the oar. It’s the moment everything connects. The legs compressed, arms long, core tight, blade set at the right angle. If your body’s rushing or out of sync, the blade won’t lock in.”
Evan nodded, absorbing every word like it was gospel. “So I’m rushing it?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Most freshmen do. You see fast rowers and assume fast means frantic. But the catch is the quiet part. The patient part. If you force it, you miss it.”
He grinned. “Any tips?”
