Eldridge, mercifully, didn’t linger on it. He snapped his clipboard closed. “Two pieces. Twenty minutes each. Ladders. Begin.”
The room erupted into motion.
I grabbed the handle and drove back and my first stroke was sloppy. My split jumped too high. My breathing was already off. I tried to correct it, to focus on the mechanics—weight at the catch, legs first, core tight, clean finish—but everything inside me felt scrambled.
And Liam wouldn’t leave my mind.
His face that morning on the river. The spark that shot through me when our boats aligned. The deadly look when he edged ahead.
Wanting him and having to resent him in equal measure was tearing me in half.
I pulled harder, chasing something I couldn’t name.
You must crush him, Alexander.
Marcus leaned over between intervals. “Dude. Shoulders down. You’re rowing like an amateur.”
I ignored him.
The second piece was worse. My rhythm broke twice, and every time it happened my lungs seized like the air had teeth. By the time Eldridge called for cooldown, my whole body was vibrating.
It wasn’t the good kind of post-workout buzz.
I sagged forward, hands dangling between my knees as I tried to steady my breath.
Marcus dropped beside me, his shirt plastered to him, hair sticking up at odd angles, half-soaked in sweat, and a smell that said he wasn’t wearing deodorant.
“You good?” he asked, nudging my shoulder with his own.
I swallowed hard. “Just a rough day.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Don’t lie to me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “This is about Moore, right?”
My breath hitched. “It’s not—”
“Dude.” He gave me a look that sliced through my pathetic attempt at hiding the truth. “It’s about Moore.”
I looked at the floor, jaw tightening. “It’s complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated,” he said, but his voice was soft. “But the thing with Moore? It’s... not. You’re racing him. That’s it. One guy. One race. One stupid scrimmage that no one outside this program will care about in a week.”
My chest tightened. “My dad cares.”
“Yeah, well, your dad also wears loafers to barbecues and thinks ‘networking’ is life. Not exactly what you’re all about... right?”
I snorted despite myself.
Marcus continued. “Look. You’re strong. You’re clean. You’re technical. You’re going to be fine tomorrow. And even if Mooreis some prodigy demigod on the water, who cares? It’s not Nationals. It’s not Henley. It’s a scrimmage in September.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” he insisted. “You’re just carrying all your dad’s bullshit. It’s too much weight, man.”
“I know... I just—“
“Dude, when Eldridge announced it you looked like a possessed Victorian child. Is that what you want to look like?”
