Half-pressure. Technical steady state. My sweet spot.
“That’s better,” he said. “Your early-season form is ahead of the others. Ahead of most sophomores I’ve coached.”
There was no warmth in the praise—Eldridge didn’t do warmth—but something inside me loosened. A tiny release of breath. Approval mattered, even when I hated that it did.
I let the boat run through the puddles—a clear sign of efficiency.
He wasn’t wrong.
My catches were sharp, set before the blade dropped. My finishes were clean. My body angles felt carved into me. I’d spent the entire summer training, trying to fix every flaw before someone else could find it first.
“You were born with good biomechanics, but you think too much. It’s a gift until it isn’t.”
“I don’t understand.” I said.
He didn’t react. “Row again. Technical six. Focus on suspension. Let the oar load after the catch. Don’t muscle it.”
I took the next few strokes cleanly, letting the boat lift just a little under the power of my legs. For a moment, everything clicked—the balance, the silence, the cold morning air. I lived formoments like that, the ones where the pressure fell away and all that existed was rhythm.
And then Liam crossed my mind.
Sharp. Uninvited.
A flash of the way he’d looked at me the other morning, like he saw right through the polished version of me. Like he remembered everything from Brackett Lake too—whether he wanted to or not.
My hands bobbled. The blade caught water early, dragging. The bow lurched left.
“Stop,” Eldridge snapped.
My stomach dropped. I squared the blade and let myself drift.
The launch pulled beside me. Eldridge’s sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could feel him studying me.
“That was a thought.”
I swallowed. “I’m fine.”
“No. Something broke your focus. And it happened fast.”
I stared at the water. He’d seen right through it. Of course he had.
“It won’t happen again,” I said.
“It will, until you address whatever it is.”
I forced my jaw to unclench. “I’ll deal with it.”
His silence told me he didn’t believe a word, but he nudged the launch back anyway.
“Pick it back up. Paddle us home.”
I took a breath and rowed, each stroke a little too tight, a little too aware of the ghost sitting in the boat with me—Liam, furious and alive, the exact distraction I couldn’t afford.
Practice was finished, weights were finished, and I was exhausted enough that I should’ve stumbled straight to my room and collapsed. Instead, I walked into the shower room with my towel slung over my shoulder, already bracing myself.
Kingswell’s locker room was huge—white tile, chrome fixtures, open showers with steam drifting up in soft waves. And bodies. Everywhere. Teammates stripping down, laughing, rinsing off the river and sweat.
Every year it caught me off guard, that easy confidence other guys had with their own skin.
