The air tightened. My heartbeat thudded in my ears. Anger drowned out everything else. I should’ve rowed away. I should’ve been the bigger person.
But something in me snapped.
“You want to race?” I asked.
His eyebrows ticked up. “You’re kidding.”
“Come on. Scared?” I taunted him. I knew he couldn’t turn it down.
For a second, he didn’t move. Then he narrowed his eyes, leaned forward, and set his oars.
“Fine,” he said. “Finish line at the Riverside boathouse.”
“Done.”
We lined up across the river. The world shrank to the two of us.
No teams, no coaches, no rules. Just me and Alex. He nodded once and we both drove our legs down hard.
The race exploded.
My blood caught fire. Water churned white. My lungs seized. Each stroke felt like ripping something raw out of myself. Alex stayed even with me—then gained—then fell back—then surged again. His technique was too clean; mine was too violent.
I knew that.
We were mismatched in the most infuriating way.
My heart pounded. I couldn’t let him win. Why did I even challenge him?
None of this was a good idea. We could get in so much trouble. I pushed the thought out of my mind and found another gear atthe halfway point, fueled by spite. He matched it like he could read my mind.
God damnit.
We shot under the bridge, dead even, my legs burning and my vision tunneling. I couldn’t lose to him.
The last ten strokes were hell. Alex slipped ahead by half a seat. I clawed it back. He surged again.
For three strokes, we were synchronized—his catch matching mine, our boats breathing together. Like we’d found a rhythm across the water and our boats lifted.
It felt like flying.
It felt like that summer.
Then my anger flooded back.
The Riverside boathouse appeared ahead like a finish-line taunt. I emptied everything—every grudge, every memory, every stupid leftover spark from that summer.
But it was lost. He was ahead by an entire seat when we passed the boathouse.
I knew it and he knew it.
We both pulled an easy, slowed the stroke rate to let our boats settle. I gasped to catch my breath. Everything in me said not to look up, don’t acknowledge the loss, just row away.
“Good race.” He smirked.
My pulse kicked hard against my ribs. I hated him and I wanted him. I forced my voice steady and looked up.
“Go to hell, Harrington.”
