“Your resort to physical attacks tells me that you know I’m right.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’m a little repressed. But there’s just a lot of stress and I have to if I want to stay focused.”
A look of disbelief flashed across his face and he sighed. “Liam... Liam... Liam... what am I going—”
My phone buzzed and I reached for it.
Restricted Number
Thought you’d want to see this.
The message and the thumbnail of a video landed in my stomach like a stone.
“Who’s that?” Noah asked.
“No clue.”
I tapped the video.
Early morning on the river, like 5 AM. The sound of someone laughing off-camera, a shaky camera angle zooming toward two single shells moving at a speed that made my pulse spike.
My breath stalled.
It was us.
Me and Alex. Racing before sunrise. Unsupervised. That first morning before preseason started.
My chest tightened.
“Liam?”
I didn’t answer.
Fuck.
Noah rushed over and sat on the bed next to me and looked over my shoulder.
“Oh my god,” Noah whispered, leaning closer. “Liam. This is—holy shit.”
The camera zoomed again. Alex surged ahead for a moment, muscles carved in sunlight, jaw locked in determination. I matched him stroke for stroke, the rush of it radiating out of the screen.
Something in me folded inward. I wasn’t sure if it was fear or anger… probably both.
“Someone filmed this,” Noah said, horror creeping across his face. “Someone was on the bank that morning, and they got the whole thing.”
“This is bad,” I said. “Hale. My scholarship. The program. It’s over. It’s fucking over.”
“You’re spiraling,” he said.
The truth was, I barely understood what was happening inside me. The fear was obvious—getting caught, getting cut from the team, losing Hale’s trust. No scholarship. No school. No future.
Noah waited a moment, then asked, “Are you scared?”
The word hit harder than I expected.
I kept my eyes on the phone screen. “No.”
“Liam.”
