How the hell was I supposed to beat him tomorrow?
He already beat me once.
I was halfway through the second piece when I heard the hum of Hale’s launch approaching. Not fast. Just close enough to say:I see you struggling.
He eased up alongside me.
“Moore,” he said, sighing like he’d been expecting this. “Where’s your head at today?”
“In the boat,” I replied.
He raised an eyebrow. “If that’s true, then I must be looking at the wrong boat.”
I clenched my jaw. “I’m fine.”
“Rowers who are fine don’t row like they’re being chased by demons.”
He nodded toward my hands. “Easy paddle.”
I eased pressure and let the shell glide.
Hale tilted the brim of his hat back. “Talk to me.”
The words hung there. Not a command. Not a threat. Just space.
“It’s just... a lot,” I said. “The scrimmage. The pressure. Expectations. Kingswell.”
“And by Kingswell… you mean Harrington?”
I didn’t answer. My silence betrayed everything.
He rested his hands on the launch rail. “You remind me a little of myself at your age. All drive. No patience. Convinced that force equals progress.”
I blinked. Hale never talked like this.
“But rowing isn’t built on force,” he continued. “It’s built on rhythm. Presence. If you’re fighting yourself in your head, you’re fighting the water. And that’s a fight you’ll lose.”
Something in my chest loosened.
“My coach used to tell me,” Hale said, “‘The river is honest. It gives you exactly what you bring to it, nothing more, nothing less.’ Today you’re bringing panic. The river’s giving it back.”
I swallowed hard. He wasn’t wrong. Not even a little.
“You want to lead someday?” Hale asked. “Then show the boat—and yourself—that you trust your training. Trust your hands. Trust your legs. Trust your work.”
I nodded.
“Reset,” he said. “And Moore?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t row against the idea of Harrington. Row with the stroke in front of you.”
He pulled away, engine humming softly.
I turned my bow toward the sun, inhaled deeply, and set my blades.
Catch. Drive. Swing. Release.
