The eight glided past, and Remy flashed me a quick salute with his fingertips.
“Moore,” he called through the speaker. “Try not to embarrass the seniors tomorrow.”
Typical Remy.
I shook my head, already feeling the nerves coil tighter in my stomach.
Behind me, I heard Hale’s footsteps on the planks.
“Moore,” he said, stopping beside me. His eyes stayed on the river, the way they always did, like reading water was easier than reading people. “This year’s freshmen are hungry.”
I nodded. “With Remy coxing them... they’ll be fine.”
A small grunt of approval. “Good combination, a fearless cox and a crew that listens? They might surprise a few people this weekend.” He cut me a sidelong glance. “Hunger takes you far. Direction takes you farther.”
I straightened at that, waiting for whatever came next.
Then he turned toward me. “Now, before you shove off, here’s your plan.”
I waited.
“Three pieces,” Hale said. “First: easy steady state, twenty minutes. Just find your rhythm. Get your head right.”
I nodded.
“Second: five-minute race pace. Not a sprint. Sustainable power. I want to see control, not panic.”
“Got it.”
“Third: three hard bursts. Ten strokes each. Full pressure. Then paddle back.” He paused. “This isn’t about proving anything today. It’s about reminding your body what it can do when your brain gets out of the way.”
“Understood.”
“And Liam?”
“Don’t race the ghost in your head today.”
I nodded. Had I been that obvious?
Hale nodded toward my single. “Go on. Get warm. I’ll check in.”
I pushed off the dock, letting the river take me. The shell steadied beneath me, the narrow seat sliding beneath my hips in that familiar, fragile way—like it was willing to carry me, but only if I didn’t try too hard.
I should’ve felt calm. Instead everything inside me felt loud.
I started the first gliding piece. The stroke should’ve been smooth: controlled leg drive, clean body swing, soft hands through the finish. But the moment I took my first full stroke, my blade slapped the water.
The boat rocked left. Then right. Nothing lined up.
For the next minute, every stroke felt like a different mistake.
Set the damn boat. Breathe. Relax your grip. Listen to the run.
None of it landed. What I needed right now was the smooth commands of Remy. The way he spoke and guided in that rhythm.
My mind kept ripping back to the gazebo at Lake Brackett, to Alex’s face inches from mine when he ended it. The way my chest burned like something had been ripped out. It leapt to the unsanctioned race—the way he slid past me cleanly at the line.
The way it had hollowed me out and lit me up at the same time.
